Robert Frost (1874–1963). North of Boston. 1915.
17. Good Hours
I
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.