Classic Poem

The pulse of the year beat low, throbbed low,
The winds went drearily sighing;
For wrapped in their shrouds of snow, white snow,
The last of fall flowers were lying.

I heard the north storm come down, come down,
From its farthest icy dwelling,
Through leafless forests all brown, all brown,
The doom of the old year knelling.

But when the light of thy smile, sweet smile,
Was shed on the lone chance-comer,
He dreamed a fair dream awhile, awhile,
Of beauty and love and summer.