Classic Poem

The drizzling mist mounts slowly
And all the rough hills veileth:
Lashed by the north wind waileth
The sea, grey like the earth;

But through the suburb's alleys
A pungent scent from seething
Vats is wafted, breathing
Of wine and festal mirth.

Stands at his door the huntsman:
Within, the logs are blazing:
He stands and whistles, gazing,
While the spit turns on the hearth,

At dark bird-flocks migrating
Thro' the red-tinged clouds of even.
Like thoughts to exile driven
From the mind that gave them birth.