Classic Poem

Blow and blow, November storm,
Frost my windows, beat at my door!
But you cannot come to my fireside warm,
Where I sit and hark to your gusty roar.

You beard the trees with your frosty breath;
You grasp the stream in your icy hand,
And the sleeping lake lies still as death,
Waveless, mute, by the frozen land.

The leaves scarce fallen, the birds scarce flown,
You grasp full soon with your pitiless hold
Upon sod and stream, upon field and town—
Hasty and flerce is your griping cold.

I pity the poor in your hand, to-night—
In shaking garrets, in cellars damp,
Shrinking, shivering, thin and white!
Death is abroad on his stealthy tramp!

Yet this wild night is Thanksgiving night,
And some give thanks, some feast and play;
Some shiver and freeze, while soft and bright
The festal lamps shine over the way.

O, ye who feast in happy homes,
Thankful for much, expecting more,
While joy along with thanksgiving comes—
To-night, to-night remember the poor!