Page:Late lyrics and earlier, with many other verses (IA latelyricsearlie00hardiala).pdf/158



HE 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.