  THE winds go riding down the wold, And back the forest legions throw; A winter day the hours has told On rosaries of drops of snow. Through close-drawn blinds the lamplight falls, And on a drifted whiteness lies, Here within these cottage walls The flames make stars of baby’s eyes. Rude fingers tap upon the pane And entrance at the door demand; The storm king and his lusty train Go rushing o’er the land; But homes where love a vigil keeps Know not that summer ever dies, Know not that summer even sleeps, When flames make stars of baby’s eyes. The father to the mother reads, The mother busy at his side; He reads a tale of noble deeds, Of men who for a nation died, But oft they turn and fondly look Upon the hero whom they prize Beyond the people of the book, Where flames make stars of baby’s eyes. Fierce winds may ride across the night, And storms prevail o’er flood and field, But where one lamp throws out its light, A happy picture is revealed Of two, who by the fireside sit, And watch the glowing flames, while rise Quick shadows that around them flit And mock the stars in baby’s eyes. |
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