The coffee steams in a silver urn, My books are near in a friendly row; The bright coals fall as they softly burn When winter winds begin to blow. Red leaves are warm beneath the snow; Red apples shine on a delft-blue plate; No need to fear a winter foe: I have red books and a fire in the grate. I do not mind the frost's return, The bitter storms of sleet that go To mask with ice each tree and fern When winter winds begin to blow. My hands are busy as they sew The wool whose warmth can recreate The summer days I miss, although I have red books and a fire in the grate. Within my citadel I learn How sweet a thing it is to know The joys of home for which I yearn When winter winds begin to blow. The fragrant brew, the candleglow, The unheard melodies that wait; Along with these for a winter's show I have red books and a fire in the grate. @3L'envoi@1 Oh, better than wines of old Bordeaux When winter winds begin to blow. No twilight finds me desolate -- I have red books and a fire in the grate. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A PACIFIST FRIEND by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE HIGH TIDE AT [OR, ON THE COAST OF] LINCOLNSHIRE by JEAN INGELOW TWILIGHT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 14 by OMAR KHAYYAM LINES TO CASTE by SAMUEL ALFRED BEADLE THY DREAMS ARE THE DEEDS OF MEN by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |