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.