Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
 And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
 Throws up a steaming column, and the cups
 That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in.... 
 O winter! ruler of the inverted year,
 Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,
 Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheek
 Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
 But urged by storms along its slippery way;
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,
 And dreaded as thou art.  Thou holdest the sun
 A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
 Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
 And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
 Down to the rosy west; but kindly still
 Compensating his loss with added hours
 Of social converse and instructive ease,
 And gathering, at short notice, in one group
 The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
 Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
 I crown thee king of intimate delights,
 Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness,
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
 Of long uninterrupted evening know.

* * * * *

MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN.

[From The Task.]

  O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
  Some boundless contiguity of shade,
  Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
  Of unsuccessful or successful war
  Might never reach me more!  My ear is pained,
  My soul is sick with every day’s report
  Of wrong or outrage with which earth is filled. 
  There is no flesh in man’s obdurate heart,
  It does not feel for man; the natural bond
  Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
  That falls asunder at the touch of fire.

* * * * *

ROBERT BURNS.

TAM O’SHANTER.

  When chapman billies[150] leave the street,
  And drouthy[151] neebors neebors meet,
  As market-days are wearing late
  An’ folk begin to tak the gate;[152]
  While we sit bousing at the nappy,[153]
  An’ getting fou[154] and unco[155] happy,
  We think na on the lang Scots miles,
  The mosses,[156] waters, slaps,[157] and styles,
  That lie between us and our hame,
  Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
  Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
  Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
    This truth fand honest Tam O’Shanter,
  As he frae Ayr ae[158] night did canter,
  (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
  For honest men and bonnie lasses.)