Classic Poem

Cold blows the blast,
And the snow falls fast
On meadow and moor, and the deep blue lake;
And the wind it is keen
In the snow-white sheen,
As the glances which the Envies make.

Merrily by the hearthstone we
Sit with a song of social glee,
While the blaze of the red fire glows,
Painting the sides of the rafters old,
Till they shine in the roof like melted gold,
Right under the piled up, chilling snows.

Now the brooks are bound,
And make no sound,
Still as a corpse in its coffin drear;
While the icicles shine
As stately and fine
As the lamps of the church o'er the death-cold bier.

But it troubleth not us,
There are joys for us,
And thine eye is as warm as in summer time;
Thy kiss is as sweet,
And thy loving arms meet
As were ringing abroad the soft winds' chime.