Poemsby Emily Dickinson

At Home

 The night was wide, and furnished scant With but a single star, That often as a cloud it met Blew out itself for fear. 
 The wind pursued the little bush, And drove away the leaves November left; then clambered up And fretted in the eaves. 
 No squirrel went abroad; A dog's belated feet Like intermittent plush were heard Adown the empty street. 
 To feel if blinds be fast, And closer to the fire Her little rocking-chair to draw, And shiver for the poor, 
 The housewife's gentle task. "How pleasanter," said she Unto the sofa opposite, "The sleet than May - no thee!"