BY THE HEARTH.

You come too late;

‘ Tis far on in November.

The wind strikes bleak

Upon the cheek

That careth rather to keep warm,

( And where‘ s the harm? )

Than to abate

One jot of its calm color for your sake.

Watch! See! I stir the ember

Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake.

And think you that it will?

‘ T is burned, I say, to ashes.

It smoulders cold

As grave-yard mould.

I wish indeed you would not blow

Upon it so!

The dead to kill.

I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir,

Nor woman lift the lashes

Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her!

Ah, sweet surprise! did not think such shining

Upon the gloom

Of this cold room

Could fall. Your even, strong, calm breath

Calls life from death.

The warm light lies

At your triumphant feet, faint with desire

To reach you. See! The lining

Of violet and of silver in that sheath of fire!

If you would care —

Although it is November —

I will not say

A bitter nay

To such a gift for building fires.

And though it tires

Me to think of it — I‘ ll own to you

( If you can stir the ember )

It may be found at last, just warm enough for two!