Explore "On the Way" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE trees fret fitfully and twist, / Shutters rattle and carpets heave, / Slime is the dust of yestereve, / And in the streaming mist / Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.
But to his feet, / Drawing nigh and nigher / A hidden seat, / The fog is sweet / And the wind a lyre.
A vacant sameness grays the sky, / A moisture gathers on each knop / Of the bramble, rounding to a drop, / That greets the goer-by / With the cold listless lustre of a dead man's eye.
But to her sight, / Drawing nigh and nigher / Its deep delight, / The fog is bright / And the wind a lyre.