Classic Poem

At my threshold stands a guest;
Shall I, dare I, bid him enter?
'T is the very dead of winter;
Snowy roads his feet have pressed;
Inhospitably I wait,
Trembling, still I hesitate.

With his wings he veils his face,
And a glory half divine
Like a nimbus seems to shine
Round him, making bright the place.
Cold the night, and yet I stand,
On the latch a halting hand.

What if I should bid him come,
And with him should enter Woe?
For 't is whispered, well we know,
That the pair together roam;
And who welcomes Love, they say,
Lets in Woe, who stays alway.

Yet—the night is very chill!
Love is shivering with the cold;
'T is, mayhap, a fable old
That he bringeth tears and ill.
Sure a maiden's heart were hard
Thus to keep the entrance barred!

Hark! I hear his piteous moan,
Welcome, Love, the house is thine,
Shelter, fire, and meat and wine—
Welcome, Love, and take thine own.
And if with thee enter Woe,
Then, in sooth, it must be so!