IN AN OLD FARMHOUSE 
     
    
   
   
    
     OUTSIDE the afterlight’s lucent rose 
     
     Is smiting the hills and brimming the valleys, 
     
     And shadows are stealing across the snows; 
     
     From the mystic gloom of the pineland alleys. 
     
     Glamour of mingled night and day 
     
     Over the wide, white world has sway, 
     
     And through their prisoning azure bars, 
     
     Gaze the calm, cold eyes of the early stars. 
     
    
   
   
    
     But here, in this long, low-raftered room, 
     
    

    
     Where the blood-red light is crouching and leaping, 
     
     The fire that colors the heart of the gloom 
     
    

    
     The lost sunshine of old summers is keeping—- 
     
     The wealth of forests that held in fee 
     
     Many a season’s rare alchemy, 
     
     And the glow and gladness without a name 
     
     That dwells in the deeps of unstinted flame. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Gather we now round the opulent blaze 
     
    

    
     With the face that loves and the heart that rejoices, 
     
     Dream we once more of the old-time days, 
     
    

    
     Listen once more to the old-time voices! 
     
     From the clutch of the cities and paths of the sea 
     
     We have come again to our own roof-tree, 
     
     And forgetting the loves of the stranger lands 
     
     We yearn for the clasp of our kindred’s hands.