The wind is loud this bleak December night, And moans, like one forlorn, at door and pane; But here within my chamber warm and bright, All household blessings reign. And as I sit and smoke, my eager soul Somewhat at times from out the Past will win, Whilst the light cloud wreathes upwards from the bowl, That glows so red within. And of the Protean shapes that curling rise, Fancy, godlike, so moulds and fashions each, That dead hands live again, and kindly eyes, And even dear human speech. ... And as the witching incense round me climbs, I feel those wealthy summer eves once more, When from full hearts we read our venturous rhymes, Or favourite poet-lore, And, pausing, saw the still night drawing on, And o'er the turret-roofs, serene and clear Within their ordered spaces, one by one, The solemn stars appear. So in this odorous cloud full oft I see Sweet forms of tender beauty; and a tone Steals through the echoing halls of Memory, That these are all my own. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONATA IN PATHOS by CONRAD AIKEN COLORS by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET DRIVING INTO LARAMIE by JAMES GALVIN LINES ON CARMEN SYLVA by EMMA LAZARUS THE GARDEN OF ADONIS by EMMA LAZARUS UNWANTED MEMORY by CLARENCE MAJOR |