Like curtains drapes the oaken beams,
The spiders skipped from place to place
And sometimes dropped in on my dreams.
And when the morning, damp and raw,
Arrived at last as if by chance,
I’ve crawled from out the rancid straw
And cussed the stable barns of France.
And sometimes when the day is done
And lengthening shadows pointing long,
I dream of days when there was sun