From his “Wolf, wolf, wolf!” at the door.

 The long sweet April wind may woo the world from grief,

 And tell the old tales at my door;

 The rainbirds in the rain may plead their far refrain,

 In the glad young year at my door;

 And in the quiet sun, the silly partridge brood

 In the red pine dust by my door;

 Yet my squinting runty dwarf, with his lewd ungodly laugh,

 Cries “Wolf, wolf, wolf!” at my door.

39

 I’m his master (and his slave, with his “Wolf, wolf, wolf!”)

 As he squats in the sun at my door.

 There morn and noon and night, with his cuddled low delight,

 He watches for the wolf at my door.

 The wind may parch his hide, or freeze him to the bone,

 While the wolf walks far from the door;

 Still year on year he sits, with his five unholy wits,

 And watches for the wolf at the door.

 But the fall of the leaf and the starting of the bud

 Are the seasons he loves by the door;

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