There Is No Inspiration In The View. From Where This Acorn Drops Its Thimbles Brown The Landscape Stretches Like A Shaggy Frown; The Wrinkled Hills Hang Haggard And Harsh Of Hue: Above Them Hollows The Heaven'S Stony Blue, Like A Dull Thought That Haunts Some Sleepdazed Clown Plodding His Homeward Way; And, Whispering Down, The Dead Leaves Dance, A Sere And Shelterless Crew. Let The Sick Day Stagger Unto Its Close, Morose And Mumbling, Like A Hoary Crone Beneath Her Fagots Huddled Fogs That Soon Shall Flare The Windy West With Ashen Glows, Like Some Deep, Dying Hearth; And Let The Lone Night Come At Last Night, And Its Withered Moon.