“Only the branches that grate on the roof,
When the wind bends down the tree!
Now sing me the song I’ve taught to you,
That I, myself, as a little child knew!”
“But, mother, those flames dart back and forth—
Like balls of fire they play!
And those shuddering cries are at the door;
‘You must let us in,’ they say!”—
“My child! Your father’s whistle I hear—
Say a prayer for him—he is coming near!”