Sojourn in the Country

My country cottage with its fluted roof,

Lime-colored, papery, like a lace-edged shelf,

Stands high and lonely on a weedy bluff

Where no one comes or goes except myself.

Within the mustard walls the crickets sing,

. And drafts make furtive eddies at my head.

I lie and watch an agile spider swing

Upon his frail trapeze above my bed.

Though never quite so desolate, I thrive

On frost and wretched lamps, and feel secure

To be where trees and grass are thick and live

And even weeds are niched where they endure.

Here in this moss-green twilight, steeped with dew,

Is all the peace there is, except with you.