English poem
THE NEW HOUSE
by Edward Thomas (1878–1917)
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.