The Road at My Door

An affable Irregular, A heavily built Falstaffan man, Comes cracking jokes of civil war As though to die by gunshot were The finest play under the sun.

A brown Lieutenant and his men, Half dressed in national uniform, Stand at my door, and I complain Of the foul weather, hail and rain, A pear tree broken by the storm.

I count those feathered balls of soot The moor-hen guides upon the stream, To silence the envy in my thought; And turn towards my chamber, caught In the cold snows of a dream.