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Thomas Hardy - The Dead Man Walking
Work rating: Low

They hail me as one living,
     But don`t they know
   That I have died of late years,
     Untombed although?
   I am but a shape that stands here,
     A pulseless mould,
   A pale past picture, screening
     Ashes gone cold.
   Not at a minute`s warning,
    Not in a loud hour,
  For me ceased Time`s enchantments
    In hall and bower.

  There was no tragic transit,
    No catch of breath,
  When silent seasons inched me
    On to this death….

  — A Troubadour-youth I rambled
    With Life for lyre,
  The beats of being raging
    In me like fire.

  But when I practised eyeing
    The goal of men,
  It iced me, and I perished
    A little then.

  When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
    Through the Last Door,
  And left me standing bleakly,
    I died yet more;

  And when my Love`s heart kindled
    In hate of me,
  Wherefore I knew not, died I
    One more degree.

  And if when I died fully
    I cannot say,
  And changed into the corpse-thing
    I am to-day,

  Yet is it that, though whiling
    The time somehow
  In walking, talking, smiling,
    I live not now.
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