FIRELIGHT.
And clouds lie low on the misty bill, A lover comes with the grey October A blank in our empty hearts to fill.
In the ingle she waits with red-gold tresses, With rosy cheeks and with lips rose-red, And we stretch our hands to her warm caresses In days when the drifted leaves lie dead.
Not a thought has she but to do our pleasure, With flash and sparkle to light our eyes, To gladden each hour of twilight leisure With richer dreams than the sunset skies.
She croons to us songs of buried summer When loud west winds in the chimney hum ; She heralds winter, the proud new-corner, With blaring bugle and roaring drum.
She peoples the far forgotten ages With shining legions of horse and foot Till our hearts forget how they won their wages Of cold grey ashes and dead-sea fruit.
She builds us castles of golden glory, And builds them splendid with scarp and tower.— Yet her sweetest word is her own love-story, The warmth of her heart at the twilight hour!
WILL H. OGILVIE.
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