Thomas Hardy — On the Way

The trees fret fitfully and twist,        &nbsp Shutters rattle and carpets heave,        &nbsp Slime is the dust of yestereve,        &nbsp       &nbsp And in the streaming mist Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.        &nbsp       &nbsp But to his feet,        &nbsp       &nbsp Drawing nigh and nigher        &nbsp       &nbsp A hidden seat,        &nbsp       &nbsp The fog is sweet        &nbsp       &nbsp And the wind a lyre.        &nbsp A vacant sameness grays the sky,        &nbsp A moisture gathers on each knop        &nbsp Of the bramble, rounding to a drop,        &nbsp       &nbsp That greets the goer-by With the cold listless lustre of a dead man’s eye.        &nbsp       &nbsp But to her sight,        &nbsp       &nbsp Drawing nigh and nigher        &nbsp        &nbsp Its deep delight,        &nbsp       &nbsp The fog is bright        &nbsp       &nbsp And the wind a lyre.