Cold

A mist that froze beneath the moon and shook Minutest frosty crystals in the air. All night the wind was still as lonely Care Who sighs before her shivering inglenook. The face of Winter wore a cruder look Than when he shakes the icicles from his hair, And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stare Freeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook. He is the despot now who sits and dreams Of desolation and despair, and smiles At poverty, who hath no place to rest, Who wanders o’er Life’s snow-made-pathless miles, And sees the Home-of-Comfort’s window gleams, Hugging her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.