“See here! it is the night! it is the night! 
And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow,
And the wan moon upon a casement shines—­
A casement crusted o’er with frosty leaves,
That make her ray less bright along the floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees,
Poor tired soul! and she has nought to do,
For there is neither fire nor candle-light: 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth,
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago;
Her children wail a little in their sleep
For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound
Was not enough, another comes to her,
Over God’s undefiled snow—­a song—­
Nay, never hang your heads—­I say, a song. 
  And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots
That drink the night out and their earnings there,
And drink their manly strength and courage down,
And drink away the little children’s bread,
And starve her, starving by the self-same act
Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye
Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart
To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop
That feed the others? 
                      Does she curse the song? 
I think not, fishermen; I have not heard
Such women curse.  God’s curse is curse enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing,
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show—­
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse—­
‘My master is not worse than many men:’ 
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still;
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty
Bearing her down. 
                 My heart is sore for her;
How long, how long?  When troubles come of God,
When men are frozen out of work, when wives
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die,
When boats go down at sea—­then nought behoves
Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men
Patience is hard—­I tell you it is hard.

“O thou poor soul! it is the night—­the night;
Against thy door drifts up the silent snow,
Blocking thy threshold:  ‘Fall’ thou sayest, ’fall, fall
Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. 
Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind,
Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door: 
Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song,
For there is other music made to-night
That I would fain not hear.  Wake, thou still sea,
Heavily plunge.  Shoot on, white waterfall. 
O, I could long like thy cold icicles
Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift
And not complain, so I might melt at last
In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do!

“’But woe is me!  I think there is no sun;
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: 
None care for me.  The children cry for bread,
And I have none, and nought can comfort me;
Even if the heavens were free to such as I,
It were not much, for death is long to wait,
And heaven is far to go!’