Shut in from all the world without,
We sat in clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall,
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
What matter how the night behaved!
What matter how the north-wind raved!
Blow high, blow low, not all it's snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
— John Greenleaf Whittier
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