Explore "At Home" by Emily Dickinson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The night was wide, and furnished scant / With but a single star, / That often as a cloud it met / Blew out itself for fear.
The wind pursued the little bush, / And drove away the leaves / November left; then clambered up / And fretted in the eaves.
No squirrel went abroad; / A dog's belated feet / Like intermittent plush were heard / Adown the empty street.
To feel if blinds be fast, / And closer to the fire / Her little rocking-chair to draw, / And shiver for the poor,
The housewife's gentle task.
"How pleasanter," said she / Unto the sofa opposite, / "The sleet than May -- no thee! "