Far in this den of flaring links
With jocund ships and dismal streets,
You know by heart those piled up heaps
Of low-browed, beetling roofs.
But for the miracles in store,
You would have felt a little sore.
As chilly bareness falls for snow
To make some fine excuse.
Although the feeble candle-light
Has latent echo, once you sigh
For dreary days, it's still alright
To be bereft of drip.
It changes tune, indeed. Your tune.
The one ghost hummed in gleaming room.
The one that fits ones homeward blue.
The substitute for gift.
At length the sudden knock you hear,
For all delight, and thrill, and cheer,
You'd hardly ***** with fingertip
For long-deserted door.
With dark brown curls and sparkling eyes
You meet a stranger, for demise
Is yet to catch you by surprise
With writing on a stone.
Too late to have your fate reversed,
Dream dwindles down into bedpost,
And pale, as though you've seen a ghost,
You scramble out of bed.
Mist loiters near the stirring cold-
It's all the wonders to behold.
The big prize turkey have been sold
In store around the bend.
