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.