Peace and I sat once alone, quietly, under the eaves,
Seeing the spider work, and the rain come down;
Marking the dust on the sill, watching the drift of leaves
Shingle with ochre and red the wet brick walks of the town.
And it is most strange that here, after the tempest and crying,
Where I am, far on the long road, when footfalls cease,
I should know, be sure, become utterly, certain beyond all denying
How in that very place await weaver, and web, and my peace.