"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? — planting rue?"
— "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"
"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
— "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"
"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? — prodding sly?"
— "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.
"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say — since I have not guessed!"
— "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"
"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave…
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"
"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."
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It expresses so much about Hardy, his writing, and of course about how the dead are forgotten. The end is bitter irony, that even the most devoted forget us...But that is also our strength, that we can forget, heal, I suppose it is callous but maybe necessary. Of course his poem is too cynical, but sometimes that's what we feel and want to write or read, thoughts less logical, more emotional.
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Kind of a nice & fitting comment on mankind's vanity, don't you think?
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quiet strong,sad
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This is humorous and sad at the same time. The fidelity we receive and expect during our life seems here to be forgotten by all at our death, even by our most faithful friend, our pet, at least according to Hardy.
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A Bitter Reality
The poem is in narrative form. Thomas Hardy, a novelist, a short story writer and a very fine poet has categorically described the value of worldly love after death. Somewhat the same concept that W.B.Yeats has given in his very beautiful poem 'For Anne Gregory' and through personal experiences one has to agree with him.
"I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair."
(Yeats)
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