In My Study,

Out over my study,
  All ashen and ruddy,
Sinks the December sun;
  And high up over
  The chimney’s soot cove,
The winter night wind has begun.

  Here in the red embers
  I dream old Decembers,
Until the low moan of the blast,
  Like a voice out of Ghost-land,

 
 Or memory’s lost-land,
Seems to conjure up wraiths of the past.

  Then into the room
  Through the firelight and gloom,
Some one steals,—let the night-wind grow bleak,

 
  And ever so coldly,—
  Two white arms enfold me,
And a sweet face is close to my cheek