Counterpanes

I will make myself new thought;
My own is worn and old.
And old counterpanes will not
Keep out the wind and cold.

From borrowed thought I will choose
Pieces, and, row on row,
Patch a quilt of many hues
Like the quilts of long ago.

It cannot be so fine
As what the years have thinned,
But I dread the smothered whine
Of four grey walls' grey wind.

I will patch me a counterpane,
For mine is worn to scars,
And I fear the iron rain
Of a ceiling's splashing stars.