Day of the Dead - RIP Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy wrote great novels and then, tired of novel writing, became a great poet.  At his death some in his family and some of his friends wanted him buried with his first wife, Emma, in St. Michael's Churchyard in Stinsford in Dorset; the Executor of his estate, however, demanded that he be honored by burial in Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey.  A compromise was reached: Hardy's heart was removed and buried with Emma; the rest of him was cremated and put to rest with his fellow poets in Westminster Abbey.

I have a thousand or so favorite lines of poems; one would be the last line of "During Wind and Rain".  I can't imagine walking in a cemetery on any day -- rainy or sunny -- without thinking of it.

Thomas Hardy - 1840 - 1928

During Wind and Rain

They sing their dearest songs—

       He, she, all of them—yea,

       Treble and tenor and bass,

            And one to play;

      With the candles mooning each face. . . .

            Ah, no; the years O!

How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

       They clear the creeping moss—

       Elders and juniors—aye,

       Making the pathways neat

            And the garden gay;

       And they build a shady seat. . . .

            Ah, no; the years, the years,

See, the white storm-birds wing across.

       They are blithely breakfasting all—

       Men and maidens—yea,

       Under the summer tree,

            With a glimpse of the bay,

       While pet fowl come to the knee. . . .

            Ah, no; the years O!

And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

       They change to a high new house,

       He, she, all of them—aye,

       Clocks and carpets and chairs

          On the lawn all day,

       And brightest things that are theirs. . . .

          Ah, no; the years, the years

Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

     -- Thomas Hardy

Hardy grave; down his scripted name raindrops, like tears, plough.

St. Michael's Church; Stinsford, England