The New House

THE NEW HOUSE by EDWARD THOMAS

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 learnt how the wind would sound After these things should be.