I LIE in bed and hear the storm cavorting on its path, and I secure and snug and warm, can laugh to scorn its wrath. The snow is drifting on the ground, the tall trees bend and shake, the wind is shrieking like a hound that has the stomach- ache. The pipes are freezing in the sink, and in the bathroom, too, and in the morn the plumbing gink will have to fix a few. 'Tis pleasant, sure, to lie in bed, and hear the tempest roar, to hear it wailing overhead, and pounding at the door; to know the cellar's full of coal, the larder stocked with bread; so let the black northwester roll—you do not care a red. You labored when the signs were right, with saw or ax or plow, you brought your wages home at night, and gave them to the frau; she put the money safe away, with mothballs 'twixt the bills, and now when storm fiends are at play, your breast with rapture thrills. Oh, happy is the man who saves his coin on sunny days; then when the weather misbehaves, a whoop-la he can raise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED by RICHARD CRASHAW THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S COMPLAINT by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK SABBATH HYMN by SOLOMON BEN MOSES HA-LEVI ALKABEZ CHRISTMAS, 1917 by BRENT DOW ALLINSON EPITAPH ON FRANCIS CHARTRES by JOHN ARBUTHNOT CIGARS AND BEER by GEORGE ARNOLD AN EPIGRAM ON WOMAN by PHILIP AYRES KINDLY VISION by OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 7 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |