Classic Poem

The wind is low in air,
And shakes the box-tree bare
Of spice, long hoarded there;
Cut black against the orange sky,
Two neighbors hurry by.

The door's ajar. I see
The table set for me,
My mother in her chair
Ready to say the prayer.

In journeyings to and fro
Our poor wild lives do go—
Then wind, scent, flare of sky,
The cool of evening nigh;
Roof, loaf, the fond word said—
Then afterward to bed.