Well, Timmy, if Eliot missed Hardy, at least Pound saw him: "no one taught me anything about writing since Thomas Hardy died."
And he was Dylan Thomas's "favourite poet of the century."
There is so much about Hardy that reminds me of Donne:
"It is an art that places expressive function before "beauty". It directs, ideally speaking, distinct, particular attention to each word and phrase. Without this heightened attention, a great many of Hardy's poems will not be much enjoyed, for they will seem dull, prosy, eccentric, and lame - sketchy incidents of a predictable kind, diction that is odd without purpose or appeal, jolting meters, awkward metaphors, and an inert, flattening tone of voice. But with attention, the real 'plot' and interest of many a poem takes hold. One follows the suspense, hesitation, and fluctuation of feeling and interpretation, the deeply pondered play of meaning." - David Perkins, A History of Modern Poetry, p 148.
As many critics have pointed out, Hardy is the great poet of marriage and relationship. And I could quote a hundred poems. But this one has always impressed me:
In the Nupital Chamber
'O THAT mastering tune!' And up in the bed
Like a lace-robed phantom springs the bride;
'And why?' asks the man she had that day wed,
With a start, as the band plays on outside.
'It's the townsfolk's cheery compliment
Because of our marriage, my Innocent.'
'O but you don't know! 'Tis the passionate air
To which my old Love waltzed with me,
And I swore as we spun that none should share
My home, my kisses, till death, save he!
And he dominates me and thrills me through,
And it's he I embrace while embracing you!'
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