An Invitation: To George Hammersley

Come thou, my friend; — the cool autumnal eves
About the hearth have drawn their magic rings;
There, while his song of peace the cricket weaves,
The simmering hickory sings.
The winds unkennell'd round the casements whine,
The shelter'd hound makes answer in his dream,
And in the hayloft, hark, the cock at nine,
Crows from the dusty beam.
The leafless branches chafe the roof all night,
And through the house the troubled noises go,
While, like a ghostly presence, thin and white,
The frost foretells the snow.
The muffled owl within the swaying elm
Thrills all the air with sadness as he swings,
Till sorrow seems to spread her shadowy realm
About all outward things.
Come, then, my friend, and this shall seem no more,
Come when October walks his red domain,
Or when November from his windy floor
Winnows the hail and rain:
And when old Winter through his fingers numb
Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam;
And when the mill-wheel spiked with ice is dumb
Within the neighboring stream:
Then come, for nights like these have power to wake
The calm delight no others may impart,
When round the fire true souls communing make
A summer in the heart.
And I will weave athwart the mystic gloom,
With hand grown weird in strange romance for thee
Bright webs of fancy from the golden loom
Of charmed Poesy.
And let no censure in thy looks be shown,
That I, with hands adventurous and bold,
Should grasp the enchanted shuttle which was thrown
Through mightier warps of old.