A pome to Chelsea.
I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
i'll look upon your tents again.
-My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water witch deside it stood :
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I ;
Then wherefor should I fear to die?