When it comes like a balmy blessing
From the musky wood,
The half-grown roses caressing
Till their cheeks burn blood.
When it roars in the autumn season,
And whines with rain,
Or sleet, like a mind without reason,
Or a soul in pain.
When the woodways, once so spicy
With bud and bloom,
Are desolate, dead and icy
As the icy tomb.
When the puffed owl, crouched and frowsy,
In the hollow tree,
Sobs, dolorous, cold, and drowsy,
Its shuddering melody.
Then I love to sit in December
Where the big hearth sings,
And, dreaming, forget and remember
A host of things.
And the wind—I hear how it strangles,
And wails and sighs
On the roof’s sharp, shivering angles
That front the skies.
How it shouts and romps and tumbles
In attics o’erhead;
In the great-throated chimney rumbles,
Then all at once falls dead;
Then comes like the footsteps stealing
Of a child on the stair,
Or a bent, old gentleman feeling
His slippered way with care.
And my soul grows anxious-hearted
For those once dear—
The long-lost loves, departed,
In the wind draw near.
And I seem to see their faces—
Not one estranged—
In their old accustomed places
Round the wide hearth ranged.