It is dark and lonesome here,
  Beneath the windy eaves:—
The cold, cold ground my bed,
  My coverlet dead leaves,
My only bedfellow
  The rain that wets my sleeves!

If it be day, or night,
  I know not, cannot say,
For I am like a child
  Who has lost his troubled way,
Till I see the white of the hoar-frost—...