Stamping the snow off his boots on the threshold stone,
She seemed to hear her husband, returned in the night;
And quickly arose from her bed where she lay alone;
And struck a light.

Candle in hand, she sped down the shadowy stair;
And, trembling, unlatched, and flung wide open, the door:
But only a deeper wreathe of snow whirled there
From off the moor.

Remembering slowly that he had fallen asleep,
Had fallen asleep on the hills in a drift of snow,
When he had gone through the blizzard to save his sheep,
A year ago—

Sadly she closed the door; and crept back to the bed,
As white and cold as the drift in which he had lain;
And laid herself down; and, at last, in the arms of the dead,
Slept sound again.