139
XX.
I am not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,—
Of Friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,
Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the lov'd presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.
