On a night of whirling snow
When every twig and star is dead
There is a house where I can go
And knock and enter and be fed
With fire and wine; and as we grumble
Winter ceases on the panes.
The outer heights of darkness tumble
Down and in upon our brains,
And sitting there so bitter-bright
We build a season of our own—
Of cynic ice and sudden white
Blasts of understanding blown.
