Edna St. Vincent Millay

I’LL keep a little tavern

Below the high hill’s crest,

Wherein all gray-eyed people

May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,

And mugs to melt the chill

Of all the gray-eyed people

Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveler,

And dream his journey’s end,

But I will rouse at midnight

The falling fire to tend.

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy—

But all the good I know

Was taught me out of two gray eyes

A long time ago.