VIII
At Home
The night was wide, and furnished scantWith but a single star,That often as a cloud it metBlew out itself for fear.
The wind pursued the little bush,And drove away the leavesNovember left; then clambered upAnd fretted in the eaves.
No squirrel went abroad;A dog’s belated feetLike intermittent plush were heardAdown the empty street.
To feel if blinds be fast,And closer to the fireHer little rocking-chair to draw,And shiver for the poor,
The housewife’s gentle task.“How pleasanter,” said sheUnto the sofa opposite,“The sleet than May—no thee!”