The Road at My Door, by William Butler Yeats

The Road at My Door

An affable Irregular,A heavily-built Falstaffan man,Comes cracking jokes of civil warAs though to die by gunshot wereThe finest play under the sun.
A brown Lieutenant and his men,Half dressed in national uniform,Stand at my door, and I complainOf the foul weather, hail and rain,A pear tree broken by the storm.
I count those feathered balls of sootThe moor-hen guides upon the stream,To silence the envy in my thought;And turn towards my chamber, caughtIn the cold snows of a dream.

poems.one - William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats