Classic Poem

When winds are high and trees are bare,
And all the fires of life burn low
Within, nor hope nor love is there
Upon the smouldering ash to blow
And raise it to a proper glow;
Then call I from obscurity
All the sweet souls I e'er did know,
To help in mine extremity.

And forth they start, with faces bright,
As life were throbbing in each vein,
And sweep my hearth and kindle light,
And let me feel their touch again,
And with soft clinging soothe my pain;
Then sit them down and sweetly gaze
Into my eyes, till I am fain
To give to God His due of praise.