Thomas Hardy — He Follows Himself

In a heavy time I dogged myself        &nbsp Along a louring way, Till my leading self to my following self        &nbsp Said: “Why do you hang on me        &nbsp       &nbsp So harassingly?” “I have watched you, Heart of mine,” I cried,        &nbsp “So often going astray And leaving me, that I have pursued,        &nbsp Feeling such truancy        &nbsp       &nbsp Ought not to be.” He said no more, and I dogged him on        &nbsp From noon to the dun of day By prowling paths, until anew        &nbsp He begged: “Please turn and flee! -        &nbsp       &nbsp What do you see?” “Methinks I see a man,” said I,        &nbsp “Dimming his hours to gray. I will not leave him while I know        &nbsp Part of myself is he        &nbsp       &nbsp Who dreams such dree!” “I go to my old friend’s house,” he urged,        &nbsp “So do not watch me, pray!” “Well, I will leave you in peace,” said I,        &nbsp “Though of this poignancy        &nbsp       &nbsp You should fight free: “Your friend, O other me, is dead;        &nbsp You know not what you say.” - “That do I! And at his green-grassed door        &nbsp By night’s bright galaxy        &nbsp       &nbsp I bend a knee.” - The yew-plumes moved like mockers’ beards,        &nbsp Though only boughs were they, And I seemed to go; yet still was there,        &nbsp And am, and there haunt we        &nbsp       &nbsp Thus bootlessly.