I heard a forlorn creaking swinging sign
with a white, faint word — "The Spouter-Inn"
dilapidated wooden swinging sign
a gabled palsied leaning sharp bleak wind

these eyes are windows, this body the house.
What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks
But it's too late to make improvements now.
The verse is finished; the copestone, and the chips.

Euroclydon! pooh! What frosty night;
how Orion glitters; northern lights!
talk of oriental summer nights
Can he warm blue hands by northern lights?

Let us scrape the ice from frosted feet
and see what sort of place this "Spouter" may be.