At Home. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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!”