The Five Street Village

The village It has five streets not more Every one knows the rest A lake below A ledge of rocky shore Here Will I reside my Monsignor? Relocate With me my Monsignor. And We will hear winter tempests Where the wind roars round The familiar corners Where the scarce chill Drips down the eaves Solidifying Where you hear from your bed Rains fall and seep Downwards on the gutter. Where You will hear The tempest finish. Open Early woken the casements Smell the sweet scents Of the beginning: And o! see the Dawn Before you Whitening.