Classic Poem

As o'er the dying embers oft I cower
When my tired spirits rest, and my heart swells
Lulled by domestic quiet, Memory dwells
On that blest tide, when thou the evening hour
Didst gladden. While upon the accustomed chair
I look, it seems as if thou still wert there;
Kirtled in snowy apron, thy dear knees,
Propt on the fendered hearth, my fancy sees,
O'er which—exchanging souls—we wont to bend!
And as I lift my head, thy features send
A cheering smile to me—but, in its flight
O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night
Sweeps surlily! I start, and fain would creep
To the bleak dwelling where thy cold limbs sleep!