Outside the cold, cold night; the dripping rain....
The water gurgles loosely in the eaves,
The savage lashes stripe the rattling pane
And beat a tattoo on November leaves.
The lamp wick gutters, and the last log steams
Upon the ash-filled hearth. Chill grows the room.
The ancient clock ticks creakily and seems
A fitting portent of the gathering gloom.
This is a night we planned. This place is where
One day, we would be happy; where the light
Should tint your shoulders and your wild flung hair.-
Whence we would - oh, we planned a merry morrow -
Recklessly part ways with the old hag, Sorrow....
Outside the dripping rain; the cold, cold night.