Sorley's Weather

 When outside the icy rain 
Comes leaping helter-skelter, 
Shall I tie my restive brain 
Snugly under shelter? 

Shall I make a gentle song
Here in my firelit study, 
When outside the winds blow strong 
And the lanes are muddy? 

With old wine and drowsy meats 
Am I to fill my belly?
Shall I glutton here with Keats? 
Shall I drink with Shelley? 

Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good: 
Poetry makes both better.
 
Clay is wet and so is mud, 
Winter rains are wetter.
 

Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill, 
For though the winds come frorely, 
I’m away to the rain-blown hill 
And the ghost of Sorley.

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