Thomas Hardy
On one who lived and died where he was born
When a night in November
  Blew forth its bleared airs
An infant descended
  His birth-chamber stairs
  For the very first time,
  At the still, midnight chime;
All unapprehended
  His mission, his aim. -
Thus, first, one November,
An infant descended
  The stairs.
On a night in November
  Of weariful cares,
A frail aged figure
  Ascended those stairs
  For the very last time:
  All gone his life’s prime,
All vanished his vigour,
  And fine, forceful frame:
Thus, last, one November
Ascended that figure
  Upstairs.
On those nights in November -
  Apart eighty years -
The babe and the bent one
  Who traversed those stairs
  From the early first time
  To the last feeble climb -
That fresh and that spent one -
  Were even the same:
Yea, who passed in November
As infant, as bent one,
    Those stairs.
Wise child of November!
  From birth to blanched hairs
Descending, ascending,
  Wealth-wantless, those stairs;
  Who saw quick in time
  As a vain pantomime
Life’s tending, its ending,
  The worth of its fame.
Wise child of November,
Descending, ascending
    Those stairs!
