To shelter from the thunder-drench

A scorched and sorefoot tramping wench

Came to my door and proffered me

Lilac, that I had viewed her wrench

Out of my neighbour’s tree.

I bade her in. With glances keen

She eyed my well-found kitchen, scene

Of kind domestic arts;

Like one who curious and serene

Looks round on foreign parts.

She talked of winds and wayside fruits,

Seas, cities, fair-times, landmarks, routes

Of journeys past and gone.

I gave her an old pair of boots

That she might wander on.