Night, 
and the yellow pleasure of candle-light.... 
old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock 
fogged in the veils of the fire - it's cuddling tock. 

The cat, 
greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat; 
wickedly, wakeful she yawns at the rain 
bending the roses over the pane, 
and a bird in my heart begins to sing 
over and over the same sweet thing-- 

Safe in the house with my boyhood's love 
and our children asleep in the attic above.