I’m sitting by the fire tonight,
The cat purrs on the rug;
The room’s abrim with rosy light,
Suavely soft and snug;
And safe and warm from dark and storm
It’s cosiness I hug.
Then petulant the window pane
Quakes in the tempest moan,
And cries: “Forlornly in the rain
There starkly streams a stone,
Where one so dear who shared your cheer
Now lies alone, alone.
Go forth! Go forth into the gale
And pass and hour in prayer;
This night of sorrow do not fail
The one you deemed so fair,
The girl below the bitter snow
Who died your child to bear.”
So wails the wind, yet here I sit
Beside the ember’s glow;
My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,
And loth am I to go
To her who died a ten-month bride,
Only a year ago.
To-day we weep: each morrow is
A littling of regret;
The saddest part of sorrow is
That we in time forget . . .
Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,–
Yea, I will sorrow yet.
