Poem by Thomas Hardy

A January Night

(1879)

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.

1. The Collector Cleans His Picture
2. The Voice of Things
3. Eunice
4. By Henstridge Cross at the Year’s End
5. Without, Not Within Her

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