When they first reached the dock, they Not that he'd miss the cobweb of old And snow, and-God, but it was blowing To tackle twice that distance with a smile. stiff! And no tobacco. Blest if he could tell Where he had lost it--but, for half a whiff He'd swap the very jacket off his back. But not a day like this! He'd never felt A wind with such an edge. 'Twas like the blade Of the rasper in the pocket of his belt He kept for easy shaving. In his trade You'd oft to make your toilet under a dyke And he was always one for a clean chin, Against a house-slap-bang, and like to stun! 100 Though that just saved his senses-and right there He saw a lighted window he'd not seen, And carried soap.-He'd never felt the Although he'd nearly staggered through 90 its glare would soon breath, That throttling wind. And it was not yet And he'd been traveling hard on sixty For want of custom. . . . Hell! but he year The same old road, the same old giddy Be giving them a job. It caught your gait; And he'd be walking, for a pint of beer, Into his coffin, one day, soon or lateBut not with such a tempest in his teeth, Half blinded and half dothered, that he hoped! He'd met a sight of weather on the heath, 'Twas worse than when he'd groped His way that evening down the Mallerstang Thon was a blizzard, thon—and he was done, And almost dropping when he came a-bang noon; 120 And he'd be traveling through it until dark. Dark! 'Twas already dark, and might be night For all that he could see. And not a spark Of comfort for him! Just to strike a light, And press the kindling shag down in the bowl, Keeping the flame well shielded by his hand, And puff, and puff! He'd give his very soul For half a pipe. He couldn't understand How he had come to lose it. He'd the rum 'Twas that had stopped them, something A bundle-nay, a woman. He'd nearly dropped Aye, that was safe enough; but it would Asleep himself. 'Twas well that he had If he could only sleep If he could only sleep . . . That rustling sound Of drifting snow, it made him sleepylike Drowsy and dizzy, dithering round and round. If he could only curl up under a dyke, kept That rum; and lucky that the beasts had stopped. And sleep and sleep . . . It dazzled him, THOMAS HARDY (1840- ) that white, |