Thomas Hardy — On one who lived and died where he was born

When a night in November        &nbsp Blew forth its bleared airs An infant descended        &nbsp His birth-chamber stairs        &nbsp For the very first time,        &nbsp At the still, midnight chime; All unapprehended        &nbsp His mission, his aim. - Thus, first, one November, An infant descended        &nbsp The stairs. On a night in November        &nbsp Of weariful cares, A frail aged figure        &nbsp Ascended those stairs        &nbsp For the very last time:        &nbsp All gone his life’s prime, All vanished his vigour,        &nbsp And fine, forceful frame: Thus, last, one November Ascended that figure        &nbsp Upstairs. On those nights in November -        &nbsp Apart eighty years - The babe and the bent one        &nbsp Who traversed those stairs        &nbsp From the early first time        &nbsp To the last feeble climb - That fresh and that spent one -        &nbsp Were even the same: Yea, who passed in November As infant, as bent one,        &nbsp       &nbsp Those stairs. Wise child of November!        &nbsp From birth to blanched hairs Descending, ascending,        &nbsp Wealth-wantless, those stairs;        &nbsp Who saw quick in time        &nbsp As a vain pantomime Life’s tending, its ending,        &nbsp The worth of its fame. Wise child of November, Descending, ascending        &nbsp       &nbsp Those stairs!