English poem
BY RUSHY-POND.
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.