Of all the hours of day or night
Be mine the winter candle-light,
When Day's usurpers of Love's throne —
Fame, Pride, and tyrant Care — are flown,
And hearts are letters of hid desire
Yielding their secrets at the fire.
Now beauty in a woman's face
Glows with a sympathetic grace,
And friend draws closer unto friend,
Like travelers near a journey's end;
In casual talk some common hope
Finds fresher wing and farther scope;
The eye has language fit to speak
Thoughts that by day 't were vain to seek
Out of their silence; and the hand
Grasps with a comrade's sure demand.
Pile high the winter's cheer and higher, —
The world is saved, not lost, by fire!

HEARTH-SONG

When November's night comes down
With a dark and sudden frown,
Like belated traveler chill
Hurrying o'er the tawny hill, —
Higher, higher
Heap the pine-cones in a pyre!
Where 's a better friend than fire?

Song 's but solace for a day;
Wine 's a traitor not to trust;
Love's a kiss and then away;
Time 's a peddler deals in dust.
Higher, higher
Pile the driftwood in a pyre!
Where 's a firmer friend than fire?

Knowledge was but born to-night;
Wisdom 's to be born to-morrow;
One more log — and banish sorrow,
One more branch — the world is bright.
Higher, higher
Crown with balsam-boughs the pyre!
Where 's an older friend than fire?