Harold Hart Crane (21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932 / Garrettsville, Ohio)
The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,-
But on the window licks the night.
Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No,- it is not fright...
But hold me... somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.
Comments about this poem (Fear by Harold Hart Crane )
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