There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand
For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,
Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly,
I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.
In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend –
Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend;
Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,
But mind-chains do not clink when one’s neighbour is the sky.
Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,
And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause
Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,
Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis.
As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,
I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers;
Yet my love for her in its fullness she herself even did not know;
Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.
So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west,
Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,
Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me,
And ghosts then keep their distance, and I know some liberty.
I identify very closely with the narrator in this poem, particularly the third and fourth stanzas, though for me the beaches and marshes of the East Coast and the North Sea would be my place “for thinking, dreaming, dying on” rather than the Wessex Heights.
(The narrator of course is almost certainly the poet himself here, but one should never simply assume that of poems written in the First Person.)