The grey day can infect things, deeply too.
Not that the days contorts itself to us,
But that that time spent in the constant view
Of weather blowing like a blunderbuss
Can of itself reduce our happy thoughts
Into a heap of misery and pain,
So that we see such black and tinctured spots
Within ourselves that we are blown insane.
The dull and dreary hemidark is such
That we, or I at least, can scarce resist
The dread desire to ponder too much
The frailties in me I know exist.
Such days were meant for cocoa and warm fires,
Not travel and the time that it requires.
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