The cold rain, seeping through the rotten thatch,
Drips on the floor;
And squalling winds that bluster at the door
Rattle the latch.

Beside the chilly hearth the old wife sits
With nodding head,
As a faint gleam comes from the days long dead
To failing wits—

And snug and warm beneath the cosy thatch,
She dreams once more,
Happy to hear a loved hand at the door
Lifting the latch.