Thomas Hardy — The Wanderer

There is nobody on the road        &nbsp But I, And no beseeming abode        &nbsp I can try For shelter, so abroad        &nbsp I must lie. The stars feel not far up,        &nbsp And to be The lights by which I sup        &nbsp Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup        &nbsp Over me. They wag as though they were        &nbsp Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care,        &nbsp And annoy, And demons of despair -        &nbsp Life’s alloy. Sometimes outside the fence        &nbsp Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence,        &nbsp Till at last There is a silence, dense,        &nbsp Deep, and vast. A wanderer, witch-drawn        &nbsp To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn,        &nbsp On I go, And where I rest anon        &nbsp Do not know! Yet it’s meet - this bed of hay        &nbsp And roofless plight; For there’s a house of clay,        &nbsp My own, quite, To roof me soon, all day        &nbsp And all night.