I got my copy of “Snow Bound” in 1872, and I have read the poem at least once each year since, and I have carried it all over the country with me. It is a little shabby now, but somehow that is the way I like to see old friends:
“Shut in from all the world without
We sat the clean winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat.
...
“Between the andiron’s straddling feet
The mug of cider simmered low,