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Guide Under the Waterfall

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And, as said, if I thrust my arm below Cold water in a basin or bowl, a throe From the past awakens a sense of that time, And the glass we used, and the cascade's rhyme. The basin seems the pool, and its edge The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge, And the leafy pattern of china-ware The hanging plants that were bathing there. No lip has touched it since his and mine In turns therefrom sipped lovers' wine. This a memory to keep, When times are growing old Your memory will not be the same as this But of it's ilk will hold For you a blessed memory To read when you are old. Daphne Report Reply.


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Wishful thinking. In the second, static surges ricochet around the speakers like radioactive debris. Voices break through, but no problems are solved; instead, the music seems to rail against apathy. Richard Allen.

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Poem of the week: Under the Waterfall by Thomas Hardy

She can even see the scene in miniature in the floral decorations on the basin. I wonder if we are meant to suspect that, in her "thickening shroud of grey", she has become a little deranged. Remembrance brings immeasurably bitter sorrow to the speaker in many of Hardy's great love poems. Here, on the other side of the coin, it is treasured. The memory is seen as vividly as if were fixed in a cleft in the rocks, and belonged to the present.

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This ordinary woman isn't interested in posterity, but in preserving the most significant event of her life, for herself, in defiance of time. For writers, too, this is surely the origin of that strange compulsion to turn away from experience, so as to change another experience into words.

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And why does plunging your arm in a bowl Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul? There the glass still is. And, as said, if I thrust my arm below Cold water in basin or bowl, a throe From the past awakens a sense of that time, And the glass we used, and the cascade's rhyme. The basin seems the pool, and its edge The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge, And the leafy pattern of china-ware The hanging plants that were bathing there. No lip has touched it since his and mine In turn therefrom sipped lovers' wine.

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Under the Waterfall "Whenever I plunge my arm, like this, In a basin of water, I never miss The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day Fetched back from the thickening shroud of grey. Topics Thomas Hardy Carol Rumens's poem of the week. Poetry Classics blogposts.