That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow.
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;
Vapors, and Clouds, and Storms.
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In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town.
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* * * *
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
