A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading down
By log-built shanties gray and brown;
The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fence
Of rough-hewn pickets standing dense;
The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day;
And the blanket fog where lies the bay.
But when he’s seen the last of you,
Sitting in his rocker, what’s his view?
(For there he sits, day in, day out,
Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.)