BY THE HEARTH.

You come too late; 'Tis far on in November. The wind strikes bleak Upon the cheek That careth rather to keep warm, (And where 's the harm?) Than to abate One jot of its calm color for your sake. Watch! See! I stir the ember Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake.

And think you that it will? 'T is burned, I say, to ashes. It smoulders cold As grave-yard mould. I wish indeed you would not blow Upon it so! The dead to kill. I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir, Nor woman lift the lashes Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her!

Ah, sweet surprise! did not think such shining Upon the gloom Of this cold room Could fall. Your even, strong, calm breath Calls life from death. The warm light lies At your triumphant feet, faint with desire To reach you. See! The lining Of violet and of silver in that sheath of fire!

If you would care— Although it is November— I will not say A bitter nay To such a gift for building fires. And though it tires Me to think of it—I 'll own to you (If you can stir the ember) It may be found at last, just warm enough for two!