Thomas Hardy - I Rose Up As My Custom Is lyrics

I rose up as my custom is On the eve of All-Souls' day, And left my grave for an hour or so To call on those I used to know Before I pa**ed away. I visited my former Love As she lay by her husband's side; I asked her if life pleased her, now She was rid of a poet wrung in brow, And crazed with the ills he eyed; Who used to drag her here and there Wherever his fancies led, And point out pale phantasmal things, And talk of vain vague purposings That she discredited. She was quite civil, and replied, 'Old comrade, is that you? Well, on the whole, I like my life. - I know I swore I'd be no wife, But what was I to do? 'You see, of all men for my s** A poet is the worst; Women are practical, and they Crave the wherewith to pay their way, And slake their social thirst. 'You were a poet - quite the ideal That we all love awhile: But look at this man snoring here - He's no romantic chanticleer, Yet keeps me in good style. 'He makes no quest into my thoughts, But a poet wants to know What one has felt from earliest days, Why one thought not in other ways, And one's Loves of long ago.' Her words benumbed my fond frail ghost; The nightmares neighed from their stalls, The vampires screeched, the harpies flew, And under the dim dawn I withdrew To d**h's inviolate halls.