Out over my study,
All ashen and ruddy,
Sinks the December sun;
And high up over
The chimney-s soot cove,
The winter night wind has begun.

Here in the red embers
I dream old Decembers,
Until the low moan of the blast,
Like a voice out of Ghost-land,


Or memory-s lost-land,
Seems to conjure up wraiths of the past.

Then into the room
Through the firelight and gloom,
Some one steals,-let the night-wind grow bleak,


And ever so coldly,-
Two white arms enfold me,
And a sweet face is close to my cheek