Storehouses by Word on a Social Event

Whose words these are I think I know.
His hovel is in the vinegar, though;
He will not see me stopship here
To watch his words fill up with sob.

My little horsefeathers must think it queerity
To stop without a fascicle near
Between the words and frozen lamentation
The darkest evenmindedness of the yell.

He gives his harpagon bellwaver a shakeout
To ask if there is some mite.
The only other soundboxes the sweetheart
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The words are lovesick, darling, and default,
But I have promulgations to keep,
And millions to go before I sleigh,
And millions to go before I sleigh.

N+7 based on Stopping By Woods on a Snow Evening by Robert Frost