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Are you so weary? Come to the window;
Lean, and look at this—
Something swift runs under the grass
With a little hiss…
Now you see it ripping off,
Reckless, under the fence.
Are you so tired? Unfasten your mind,
And follow it hence.
This poem is in the public domain.
On a night of whirling snow
When every twig and star is dead
There is a house where I can go
And knock and enter and be fed
With fire and wine; and as we grumble
Winter ceases on the panes.
The outer heights of darkness tumble
Down and in upon our brains,
In the middle of the wood it starts,
Then over the wall and the meadow
And into our ears all day. But it departs—
Sometimes—like a shadow.
There is an instant when it grows
Too weak to climb a solid fence,
And creeps to find a crack. But the wind blows,
Scattering it hence
Rain last night has left the field
Bare as though a goblin kept it;
Inch by inch the fellow kneeled
And picked it clean; and his wife swept it.