SONG.

The firelight listens on the floor To hear the wild winds blow. Within, the bursting roses burn, Without, there slides the snow.

Across the flower I see the flake Pass mirrored, mystic, slow. Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze, While seasons come and go!

I lift the sash—and live, the gale Comes leaping to my call. The rose is but a painted one That hangs upon the wall.