The wind’s in a rage, and the stars have gone,
    As wild as witches the clouds are tossed,
The ruffled robins are southward blown,
    And the last late flower is black with frost.
The earth is gaunt and the year is old,
    The heavens are gray and the hills are bare,
But what does that count when the hearth’s like gold,
                               What do we care?

We will draw the curtains and fold us in,
    Lay on a couple of lightwood sticks,
Chuck our firelog under the chin,
    And warm our toes on the yellow bricks.
What do we reck of dripping eaves,
    Sighing chimney and sodden leaves,
Rain on the roof and wind on the wall?
                               Nothing at all
.
The kettle is singing with gay good will,
    Shadows go romping across the gloom,
The firelight flickers on beam and sill,
    And a weaving beauty is in the room.
Roar, old storm, down the autumn night!
    You cannot worry us, wind and weather!
Hearts at home in a birch log’s light
                             Are safe together.


This poem is in the public domain.