This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride.
Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand—here—take it!"Then she died.
WHEN THE SNOW SIFTS THROUGH[19]
S. W. Gillilan
The icy gale that hurled the snow
Against the window pane,
And rattled the sash with a merry clash
Used not its strength in vain;