I

I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk,-- Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,[A] These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.