Excerpted from a "Good Housekeeping" poem, December 8, 1888
The winds through the locust boughs gustily blow,
The sun has gone down under turbulent billows -
There's wrath in the west, and the fire says "snow."
But let the wind blow through the fields bleak and lonely
Where fell the June sunshine all golden and soft,
'Twill find the dry stubble and brown brambles only;
The corn's in the crib, and the hay's in the loft.
And let the rain pour - not a wisp of the clover,
Nor spray of the meadow is left to be lost,
For the tempest to beat and the snow to drift over
For the blast of the hail and for blight of the frost.
And oh, the red light where the fore-stick is burning,
And back-log is cheerily glowing could shame
The tints of the leaves when the forest was turning
From cool ocean-green into amber and flame.
And deep-hearted closets are filled with the favors
Pomona bestowed in her kindliest care -
The richest of tints and the sweetest of flavors
In rare-ripe and damson and pippin and pear.
And cellar and store-rooms are filled to overflowing,
And granaries burst with the barley and wheat;
Our cottage is snuggest when weird winds are blowing,
So let the winds wail, and so let the storm beat..."