Hark! how your door is creaking! how the groveIn your fair courtyard, while the wild winds blow,Wails in accord! with what transparence JoveIs glazing the driven snow!Cease that proud temper: Venus loves it not:The rope may break, the wheel may backward turn:Begetting you, no Tuscan sire begotPenelope the stern.O, though no gift, no “prevalence of prayer,”Nor lovers' paleness deep as violet,Nor husband, smit with a Pierian fair,Move you, have pity yet!O harder e'en than toughest heart of oak,Deafer than uncharm'd snake to suppliant moans!This side, I warn you, will not always brookRain-water and cold stones.