Meditations in Time of Civil War（五）
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.