By the Fireplace in the Barn at Bread Loaf

By Rumford and the lowly moth piano and the barn

that hum along the glazen air to beached sill and branched eve

in weary, fray their wings may fall

and mute the embers to a sleep.

What winged thing beguiled in the rain

can thicket in the clove and wood?

But dust, the ivory to a mothy lay

(is bread to Judas and his fools)

is flock to sleeping shepherds too

is boughs to hermit, fire, and thrush

that season in the dewy briar

and den amongst the downy bush

holding by a candled fire.

For thatch and moss may do what sun

and music do to spring

but when the song of rain dire

may the mantle be your eve.