When outside the icy rain br Comes leaping helter-skelter, br Shall I tie my restive brain br Snugly under shelter? br br Shall I make a gentle song br Here in my firelit study, br When outside the winds blow strong br And the lanes are muddy? br br With old wine and drowsy meats br Am I to fill my belly? br Shall I glutton here with Keats? br Shall I drink with Shelley? br br Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good: br Poetry makes both better. br Clay is wet and so is mud, br Winter rains are wetter. br br Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill, br For though the winds come frorely, br I’m away to the rain-blown hill br And the ghost of Sorley.