
The Wanderer Thomas Hardy
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There is nobody on the road
  But I,
And no beseeming abode
  I can try
For shelter, so abroad
  I must lie.
The stars feel not far up,
  And to be
The lights by which I sup
  Glimmeringly,
Set out in a hollow cup
  Over me.
They wag as though they were
  Panting for joy
Where they shine, above all care,
  And annoy,
And demons of despair -
  Life’s alloy.
Sometimes outside the fence
  Feet swing past,
Clock-like, and then go hence,
  Till at last
There is a silence, dense,
  Deep, and vast.
  But I,
And no beseeming abode
  I can try
For shelter, so abroad
  I must lie.
The stars feel not far up,
  And to be
The lights by which I sup
  Glimmeringly,
Set out in a hollow cup
  Over me.
They wag as though they were
  Panting for joy
Where they shine, above all care,
  And annoy,
And demons of despair -
  Life’s alloy.
Sometimes outside the fence
  Feet swing past,
Clock-like, and then go hence,
  Till at last
There is a silence, dense,
  Deep, and vast.
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