@2T@1HE year has reached December days, The fire is creeping into flame; Gently I call my comrade's name, And silent both we sit at gaze. His head is prest against my knee, My hand upon his brow is set,— The flames spring upward, and we let Our fancies play with all they see. I see the face of one who died Ere the low whisper she had heard That sought the moment and the word To woo the maiden for my bride. He sees a strange, enchanted land That wanes and waxes with the flame; He does not sense himself the same, And dimly deems I understand. My listless form yields slowly down; He also droops with half-closed eyes, Yet with a mute regard that tries To feel his master's smile or frown. On her dear face a pensive smile,— The fire sinks low, and I repose; The mystery of Wyrd who knows? Are these @3real@1 hours we beguile? I cannot answer, yet am blest; And from the hearth he turns his eyes Till they meet mine in trustful wise, And so he dreams himself to rest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MORNING THOUGHT by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL THE PRINCESS: SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON IN AN AEROPLANE by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: CHRISTOPHER SMART by ROBERT BROWNING EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN by ROBERT BURNS SONG by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT ON THESE LABOURED POEMS OF THE DECEASED AUTHOR, MR. WILLIAM BOSWORTH by L. C. |