Classic Poem

Dear heart, the storm cries at the door, the snow is blown about the eaves,
The wind from some wreck-drifted shore around my lattice window grieves,
And ghosts of happier hours go by across the dark tempestuous sky.

The spruce-trees crowding up the slope toward the lonely dwelling lean,
Forgetting all the songs of hope they crooned us when the fields were green;
The wailing voices of the blast mourn for the golden summers past.

The firelight dancing on the wall and lighting many a pictured face,
The wavering shadows quaint and tall, the carved chair by the chimney-place,
Have each some wistful word to say of one beloved and far away.

And yet how longing brings you near! Just now, I almost thought I heard
From out the bitter darkness, dear, your voice and that most tender word,
The sweet new name you murmured low, that Autumn — was it years ago?

A shadow on the threshold stands — O love, can this be fancy too? —
With pleading lips, and outstretched hands, and those sad eyes by time proved true! —
Now gladly, faithful heart, I come to these dear arms that take me home!