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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.
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