Dark frost was in the air without, <br />The dusk was still with cold and gloom, <br />When less than even a shadow came <br />And stood within the room. <br /> <br />But the three around the fire, <br />None turned a questioning head to look, <br />Still read a clear voice, on and on, <br />Still stooped they o'er their book. <br /> <br />The children watched their mother's eyes <br />Moving on softly line to line; <br />It seemed to listen too -- that shade, <br />Yet made no outward sign. <br /> <br />The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, <br />No cold wind moved the wintry tree; <br />The children both in Faerie dreamed <br />Beside their mother's knee. <br /> <br />And nearer yet that spirit drew <br />Above that heedless one, intent <br />Only on what the simple words <br />Of her small story meant. <br /> <br />No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, <br />No memory her bosom stirred, <br />Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, <br />'Twas surely three who heard. <br /> <br />Yet when, the story done, she smiled <br />From face to face, serene and clear, <br />A love, half dead, sprang up, as she <br />Leaned close and drew them near.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-dusk/
