As he squats in the sun at my door.
There morn and noon and night, with his cuddled low delight,
He watches for the wolf at my door.

The wind may parch his hide, or freeze him to the bone,
While the wolf walks far from the door;
Still year on year he sits, with his five unholy wits,
And watches for the wolf at the door.

But the fall of the leaf and the starting of the bud
Are the seasons he loves by the door;
Then his blood begins to rouse, this Caliban I house,
And it's "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door.

In the dread lone of the night I can hear him snuff the sill;
Then it's "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door;
His damned persistent bark, like a husky's in the dark,
His "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door.

I have tried to rid the house of the misbegotten spawn;
But he skulks like a shadow at my door,
With the same uncanny glee as when he came to me
With his first cry of wolf at my door.

I curse him, and he leers; I kick him, and he whines;
But he never leaves the stone at my door.
Peep of day or set of sun, his croaking's never done
Of the Red Wolf of Despair at my door.

But when the night is old, and the stars begin to fade,