The Night Was Wide, And Furnished Scant With But A Single Star, That Often As A Cloud It Met Blew Out Itself For Fear. The Wind Pursued The Little Bush, And Drove Away The Leaves November Left; Then Clambered Up And Fretted In The Eaves. No Squirrel Went Abroad; A Dog'S Belated Feet Like Intermittent Plush Were Heard Adown The Empty Street. To Feel If Blinds Be Fast, And Closer To The Fire Her Little Rocking-Chair To Draw, And Shiver For The Poor, The Housewife'S Gentle Task. "How Pleasanter," Said She Unto The Sofa Opposite, "The Sleet Than May -- No Thee!"