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Thomas Hardy - The Church-Build
Work rating: Low

The church flings forth a battled shade 
Over the moon-blanched sward: 
The church; my gift; whereto I paid 
My all in hand and hoard; 
         Lavished my gains 
         With stintless pains 
To glorify the Lord. 

I squared the broad foundations in 
Of ashlared masonry; 
I moulded mullions thick and thin, 
Hewed fillet and ogee; 
         I circleted 
         Each sculptured head 
With nimb and canopy. 

I called in many a craftsmaster 
To fix emblazoned glass, 
To figure Cross and Sepulchure 
On dossal, boss, and brass. 
         My gold all spent, 
         My jewels went 
To gem the cups of Mass. 

I borrowed deep to carve the screen 
And raise the ivoried Rood; 
I parted with my small demesne 
To make my owings good. 
         Heir-looms unpriced 
         I sacrificed, 
Until debt-free I stood. 

So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed 
Here substanced!" said my soul: 
"I heard me bidden to this deed, 
And straight obeyed the call. 
         Illume this fane, 
         That not in vain 
I build it, Lord of all!" 

But, as it chanced me, then and there 
Did dire misfortunes burst; 
My home went waste for lack of care, 
My sons rebelled and curst; 
         Till I confessed 
         That aims the best 
Were looking like the worst. 

Enkindled by my votive work 
No burnng faith I find; 
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, 
And give my toil no mind; 
         From nod and wink 
         I read they think 
That I am fool and blind. 

My gift to God seems futile, quite; 
The world moves as erstwhile; 
And powerful Wrong on feeble Right 
Tramples in olden style. 
         My faith burns down, 
         I see no crown; 
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. 

So now, the remedy? Yea, this: 
I gently swing the door 
Here, of my fane—no soul to wis— 
And cross the patterned floor 
         To the rood-screen 
         That stands between 
The nave and inner chore. 

The rich red windows dim the moon, 
But little light need I; 
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn 
From woods of rarest dye; 
         Then from below 
         My garment, so, 
I draw this cord, and tie 

One end thereof around the beam 
Midway `twixt Cross and truss: 
I noose the nethermost extreme, 
And in ten seconds thus 
         I journey hence— 
         To that land whence 
No rumour reaches us. 

Well: Here at morn they`ll light on one 
Dangling in mockery 
Of what he spent his substance on 
Blindly and uselessly!… 
         "He might," they`ll say, 
         "Have built, some way, 
A cheaper gallows-tree!"
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