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