Thomas Hardy's "During Wind and Rain"

Welcome back to The Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios.

I'm Sean Johnson and today is Monday, March 16, 2026.

Today's poem is by Thomas Hardy and it's called During Wind and Rain.

It seemed like an appropriate topical selection as much of the country is experiencing a significant

or severe weather, especially east of the Rockies.

I was at a conference in Omaha this weekend and nearly got stuck there because of looming

blizzards.

In fact, many of the other attendees of the conference did get stuck there and are there

still safely back home.

I am sitting under tornado watches.

So Hardy seemed like appropriate company.

The pictures he paints in this poem are very vivid.

There's something really cinematic about his instinct.

He alternates almost seamlessly between pictures of happiness and safety and prosperity and

warmth and light, youth, people who are young singing songs, enjoying summer afternoons,

under trees, loving one another and breakfasting blithely.

And then at the end of each stanza, this return to some kind of present reality in which

heavy weather dampening or even in some cases unmaking these things.

And the link between the two sets of images is this refrain, ah, no, the years, the years,

which takes the immediate image of storms, wind and rain pounding against windows, as you

imagine, the havoc they're wreaking on your gardens and your lawn furniture outside.

It turns that into an image of maybe all time and life.

Hardy remember was not always a very happy man.

And yet maybe in some sense, he is offering a kind of limited consolation, even as the

memories are impossible realities in the midst of the rain and the wind.

They are memories of something real and something bright and something alive.

Maybe this poem is Hardy's attempt to hold on to those kinds of things, even during

wind and rain.

Here's the poem.

During wind and rain, they sing their dearest songs.

See, she, all of them, yay, treble and tenor and bass and one to play, with the candles

moaning each face, ah, no, the years, oh, how the sick leaves reel down in throngs.

They clear the creeping moss, elders and juniors, a, making the pathways neat in the garden

gay, and they build a shady seat, ah, no, the years, the years see the white stormbirds

wing across.

They are blithely breakfasting all, men and maidens, yay, under the summer tree, with a glimpse

of the bay, while pet foul come to the knee, ah, no, the years, oh, and the rotten rose

is ripped from the wall.

They change to a high new house, he, she, all of them, ah, clocks and carpets and chairs

on the lawn all day, and brightest things that are theirs, ah, no, the years, the years

down their carved names, the raindrop ploughs.

This has been the Daily Poem.

Thanks for listening.

We'll be back tomorrow with more poetry for you.

Find us at dailypoempod.substac.com to listen to past episodes or subscribe and support

the show, or even join conversations about each day's poem.

You could tell us today how you are weathering the storms.

For all of us at Goldberry Studios, I'm Sean Johnson, wishing you safety, warmth, ah,

no loss of power, and happy reading.