the road at my door
An affable Irregular, a heavily-built Falstaffian 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.