Now first, as I shut the door, 
I was alone 
In the new house; and the wind 
Began to moan. 

Old at once was the house, 
And I was old; 
My ears were teased with the dread 
Of what was foretold, 

Nights of storm, days of mist, without end; 
Sad days when the sun 
Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs 
Not yest begun. 

All was foretold me; naught 
Could I foresee; 
But I learnt how the wind would sound 
After these things should be.