This mysterious, atmospheric little poem seems to have a human tale at its heart.

Certainly, there is a man waiting on a hidden seat and there is a woman drawing ‘nigh and nigher’, both savouring the fog and wind; and endowing those, to other eyes dreary, forces of nature with a poetic sweetness. The narrator is Thomas Hardy in one of his Last Lyrics. His quirky use of language is on display too.

       ON THE WAY

The trees fret fitfully and twist,

Shutters rattle and carpets heave,

Slime is the dust of yestereve,

And in the steaming mist

Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.

~

But to his feet,

Drawing nigh and nigher

A hidden seat,

The fog is sweet

And the wind a lyre.

~

A vacant sameness grays the sky,

A moisture gathers on each knop

Of the bramble, rounding to a drop,

That greets the goer-by

With the cold listless lustre of a dead man’s eye.

~

But to her sight,

Drawing nigh and nigher

Its deep delight,

The fog is bright

And the wind a lyre.