A Winter's Tale

Out beyond in the rain-storm's sting,
In the hail and the wrath of the rain-storm's might
Perchance there are sufferers there to-night
From the icy stones that the hail-clouds fling.

But here in my chair where the pipe-clouds hover
I thank my Fates for the things that be,
For the roomy chair, for the fire's red glare,
The fragrant tobacco, the volume rare,
The excellent things that be.
(And the things to come when the Winter's over.)

—S.E.B.