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 – its cuddling tock.
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.