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.