Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
Night-Time in Mid-Fall
It is a storm-strid night, winds footing swift Through the blind profound; I know the happenings from their sound; Leaves totter down still green, and spin and drift; The tree-trunks rock to their roots, which wrench and lift The loam where they run onward underground. The streams are muddy and swollen; eels migrate To a new abode; Even cross, ’tis said, the turnpike-road; (Men’s feet have felt their crawl, home-coming late): The westward fronts of towers are saturate, Church-timbers crack, and witches ride abroad.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
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