The reed-roof'd Village, still bepatch'd with snow
Smok'd in the sun-thaw.

The Sun-shine lies on the cottage-wall,
Ashining thro' the snow--

Behind the thin
Grey cloud that cover'd but not hid the sky
The round full moon look'd small.--

'Twas sweet to know it only possible--
Some wishes cross'd my mind & dimly cheer'd it--
And one or two poor melancholy Pleasures[;]
In these, the pale unwarming light of Hope
Silv'ring their flimsy wing flew silent by,
Moths in the Moonlight--

Broad-breasted Pollards with broad-branching head.

A long deep Lane
So overshadow'd, it might seem one bower--
The damp Clay banks were furr'd with mouldy moss.

On the broad mountain-top
The neighing wild-colt races with the wind
O'er fern & heath-flowers--

terrible and loud
As the strong Voice that from the Thunder-cloud
Speaks to the startled Midnight.

Her fingers shame the ivory keys
They dance so light along;
The bloom upon her parted lips
Is sweeter than the song.

O perfumed suitor, spare they smiles!
Her thoughts are not of thee;
She better loves the salted wind,
The voices of the sea.

Her heart is like an outbound ship
That at its anchor swings;
The murmur of the stranded shell
Is in the song she sings.

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise,
But dreams the while of one
Who watches from his sea-blown deck
The icebergs in the sun.

When one is lonely (and You,
My Dearest, know why,
as I know why it must be),
steps can be taken, even
a call-boy can help.
To-night, for instance, now that
Bert has been here, I
listen to the piercing screams
of palliardising cats
without self-pity.