Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ 20
William Blake.
CLXXVI
DECEMBER MORNING.
I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter’s pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,
And cheerful tapers shine around the room,
Through misty windows bend my musing sight,
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white 5
With shutters closed peer faintly through the gloom,
That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume,