Sunday, 2 October 2011

The New House by Edward Thomas

Now first, as I shut the door,
     I was alone
In the new house ; and the wind
     Began to moan.
Old at once was the house,
     And I was old ;
My ears were teased with the dread
     Of what was foretold,
Nights of storm, days of mist, without end ;
     Sad days when the sun
Shone in vain : old griefs and griefs
     Not yet begun.
All was foretold me ; naught
     Could I foresee ;
But I learned how the wind would sound
     After these things should be.

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