The rain smites more and more
The east wind snarls and sneezes;
Through the joints of the quivering door
The water wheezes

The tip of each ivy-shoot
Writhes on its neighbour’s face;
There is some hid dread afoot
That we cannot trace

Is it the spirit astray
Of the man at the house below
Whose coffin they took in to-day?
We do not know