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.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sorley-s-weather/
