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