William Wilfred Campbell
In My Study,
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
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