SONG.

The firelight listens on the floor

To hear the wild winds blow.

Within, the bursting roses burn,

Without, there slides the snow.

Across the flower I see the flake

Pass mirrored, mystic, slow.

Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze,

While seasons come and go!

I lift the sash — and live, the gale

Comes leaping to my call.

The rose is but a painted one

That hangs upon the wall.