Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke

William Barnes (1801–1886)

The Wind at the Door

AS daylight darken’d on the dewless grass,

There still, with no one come by me,

To stay awhile at home by me,

Within the house, now dumb by me,

I sat me still as eveningtide did pass.

And there a windblast shook the rattling door,

And seem’d, as wind did moan without,

As if my love alone without,

And standing on the stone without,

Had there come back with happiness once more.

I went to-door, and out from trees, above

My head, upon the blast by me,

Sweet blossoms there were cast by me,

As if my love had pass’d by me,

And flung them down, a token of her love.

Sweet blossoms of the tree where now I mourn,

I thought, if you did blow for her,

For apples that should grow for her,

And fall red-ripe below for her,

Oh! then how happy I should see you kern.

But no. Too soon my fond illusion broke,

No comely soul in white like her,

No fair one, tripping light like her,

No wife of comely height like her,

Went by, but all my grief again awoke.