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As far as I
can see this autumn haze
That spreading in the
evening air both way,
Makes the new moon look
anything but new,
And pours the elm-tree meadow full
of blue,
Is all the smoke from one poor house alone
With but one chimney it can call its own;
So close it
will not light an early light,
Keeping its life so
close and out of sign
No one for hours has set a foot
outdoors
So much as to take care of evening chores.
The inmates may be lonely women-folk.
I want to tell
them that with all this smoke
They prudently are
spinning their cocoon
And anchoring it to an earth
and moon
From which no winter gale can hope to blow
it,--
Spinning their own cocoon did they but know it.
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