A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall,
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andiron’s straddling feet
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row.
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October’s wood.
What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow