The winter nights are coming

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On a night when the snow was a fathomless deep,
To a house on a lane, near a monument, came
Such a knock at the door that it lit up each room,
came a second and third to the scuttle of feet
Of a man and his wife in pajamas who peered
through the net and were met with a pane of sheer ice
Not a mark nor a man was there writ on its face,
But the tide of the torrent of snow and it’s thunder.
“Can I help?” said the man with a quake from the hall,
with his wife at the latch and the wind at the door
But the knocking continued apace and each froze
At the spluttering bulb. Then the light, it went out.
In the dark, did she fumble and reach for a hand,
That was his, so she thought, til she tripped on his leg .


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