I'm sitting by the fire tonight,
 The cat purrs on the rug;
The room's abrim with rosy light,
 Suavely soft and snug;
And safe and warm from dark and storm
 It's cosiness I hug.
 
Then petulant the window pane
 Quakes in the tempest moan,
And cries: "Forlornly in the rain
 There starkly streams a stone,
Where one so dear who shared your cheer
 Now lies alone, alone.

Go forth! Go forth into the gale
 And pass and hour in prayer;
This night of sorrow do not fail
 The one you deemed so fair,
The girl below the bitter snow
 Who died your child to bear."

So wails the wind, yet here I sit
 Beside the ember's glow;
My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,
 And loth am I to go
To her who died a ten-month bride,
 Only a year ago.

To-day we weep: each morrow is
 A littling of regret;
The saddest part of sorrow is
 That we in time forget . . .
Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,--
 Yea, I will sorrow yet.