Again the wind flings heavy drops against the glazing;
And you're reading old letters, tattered and fading
And retrace a whole life-time in just one hour.
With sweet trifles you enjoy such time-wasting,
You'd hate to be disturbed by a tap on the shutter;
For when it's sleeting outside, it's so much better
To dream by the fireside, sleepily nodding.
So I stay in my chair, staring into the fire,
Dreaming of old tales and a fairy queen's sighs;
Around me the mist rises higher and higher;
Suddenly the rustling of silk makes me rise,
Steps so soft, barely touched by the old floor . . .
Then with slender, icy hands you hide my eyes.