Classic Poem

It is winter, the soon dark annoys me —
Who cannot remember Severn her warm dark lights;
And am too tortured to remember old ploys the
Gloucesters used to please themselves in the straits
Of poverty and idleness of French villages.
Then before opening-time they would walk house-bordered
Or leafy ways — hurrying, keeping off the fierce cold.
Then when the lights showed, the estaminet's time came,
They would hammer at the door; they would shout out good-mannered
Rudenesses; enter, sit within; and as careful
As old ladies of knitting would drink beer or more honoured
Wine; trembling at the expense, which to them was fearful —
Bask in the warm, dream poetry of the gold flame.
While the poet watching their faces, and envying noble
Poetry of Long Island — strong, human, star-bannered;
Sat also, accusing time for his music, lost in service, refusing all blame.