Original (inglés)

CHRISTMAS EVE ROBERT BROWNING I Out of the little chapel I burst      Into the fresh night-air again. Five minutes full, I waited first      In the doorway, to escape the rain That drove in gusts down the common's centre      At the edge of which the chapel stands, Before I plucked up heart to enter.      Heaven knows how many sorts of hands Reached past me, groping for the latch Of the inner door that hung on catch More obstinate the more