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She Hears The Storm

 There was a time in former years-- 
While my roof-tree was his-- 
When I should have been distressed by fears 
At such a night as this!

I should have murmured anxiously, 
'The prickling rain strikes cold; 
His road is bare of hedge or tree, 
And he is getting old.
' But now the fitful chimney-roar, The drone of Thorncombe trees, The Froom in flood upon the moor, The mud of Mellstock Leaze, The candle slanting sooty-wick'd, The thuds upon the thatch, The eaves drops on the window flicked, The clanking garden-hatch, And what they mean to wayfarers, I scarcely heed or mind; He has won that storm-tight roof of hers Which Earth grants all her kind.

Poem by Thomas Hardy
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