Wessex Poems by Thomas Hardy - 45/48. Heiress and Architect for A. W. B. (read by Libby Gohn)

ARIS AND ARCHITECT FOR A. W. B. She sought the studios, beckoning to her side an arch-designer for she planned to build. He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled in every interval of high and wide, well fit to be her guide. Whatever it be, responded he, with cold, clear voice and cold, clear view, in true accord with prudent fashionings, for such vicissitudes as living brings, and thwarting not the law of stable things, that I will do. Shape me, she said, high halls with tracery and open ogive work, that scent and hue of buds and travelling bees may come in through, the note of birds and singings of the sea, for these are much to me. An idle whim broke forth from him, whom naught could warrant gallantries. Seed all these buds and birds, the zephyrs call, and scents and hues, and things that falter all, and choose as best the close and surly wall for winter's freeze. Then frame, she cried, wide fronts of crystal glass, that I may show my laughter and my light, light like the suns by day, the stars by night, till rival heart-queens envying wail alas her glory as they pass. O maid misled, he sternly said, whose facile foresight pierced her dear, where shall abide the soul when sick of glee it shrinks and hides, and prays no eye may see? Those house them best who house for secrecy, for you will tire. A little chamber, then, with swan and dove ranged thickly, and engraved with rare device of reds and purples, for a paradise wherein my love may greet me, I my love, when he shall know thereof. This too is ill, he answered still, the man who swayed her like a shade. An hour will come when sight of such sweet nook would bring a bitterness too sharp to Brooke, when brighter eyes have won away his look, for you will fade. Then she said faintly, O contrive some way, some narrow winding turret quite mine own, to reach a loft where I may grieve alone. It is a slight thing, hence do not, I pray, this last dear fancy slay. Such winding ways fit not your days, said he, the man of measuring eye. I must even fashion, as my rule declares, to wit give space, since life ends unawares, to hail a coffined corpse adown the stairs, for you will die. 1867.