As the pane rattles and the cricket sings,
I with the gray-haired sire
May talk of vanished summer-times and springs,
And harmlessly and cheerfully beguile
The long, long hours—
The happier for the snows that drift the while
About the flowers.
Winter, wilt keep the love I offer thee?
No mesh of flowers is bound about my brow;
From life’s fair summer I am hastening now.