Good Hours
I had for my winter evening
walk—
No one at all with whom to
talk,
But I had the cottages in
a row
Up to their shining eyes in
snow.
And I thought I had the folk
within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain
laces
Of youthful forms and youthful
faces.
I had such company outward
bound.
I went till there were no
cottages found.
I turned and repented, but
coming back
I saw no window but that was
black.
Over the snow my creaking
feet
Disturbed the slumbering village
street
Like profanation, by your
leave,
At ten o’clock of a
winter eve.
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