Personal Talk

I am not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,--
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-aquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
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