Mind too dissatisfied to sleep,
1
And 'cross the stone-paved piece, I creep,
Lungs itching to be tarred.
Smoking, I survey the sky
5
In clothing three days worn,
Still star-strewn hints of morn.
Then: a rustle!— a snort?— a skunk!
9
Far o'er the ice-glazed lawn—
A kindred stinking spirit
Waits for Spring, before the dawn.