‘A January Night’ By Thomas Hardy



The rain smites more and more,
The east wind snarls and sneezes;
Through the joints of the quivering door
 The water wheezes.


The tip of each ivy-shoot
Writhes on its neighbour’s face;
There is some hid dread afoot
 That we cannot trace.


Is it the spirit astray
Of the man at the house below
Whose coffin they took in to-day?
 We do not know.



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