Rude Awakenings

An old deserted country house appears
To give an air of grandeur to a dream;
The courtyard may be wide; the carriage steers
Through fallen snow to get there: the iced stream
No longer flows into the pond; and bare,
Birch-trees, that lost their leaves, now lose the twigs
That, bundled together, make me simply stare,
And sit and wonder should I tease and dig
Myself into more trouble, as we turn
Away from distant roads to your intent
That I should be chastised; my cheeks should burn
With marks that you've inflicted to content
My need for discipline, 'til I declare
In screaming tones and wake from my nightmare.