John-a-Dreams Nears His End

In the not-quite-white-hot glow
Of that old, wood-burning stove
That we huddled 'round that night
For the heat and for the light
I felt alone

In a bitumen-black dark
And a cold so mean and stark
That surrounded only me
And through which I could not see
That hearth and home

Oh, I did feel

A presence in the dim
Something threatening and grim

Was staring me down

And the sounds it made
That awful shade

Could make a wood frog's blood
Even colder than it was
Already, buried in the mud

And frozen solid from the latter months
Through new year, past the early ones

Oh, that dark thing
No, it did not sing
But it made a sound
That would sure confound
And strike deep fear
Into all who'd hear

But again I say, I was alone
The noise to only me was known
And thus, it fell so hard on me
It felt as though my bones would freeze

But I did not let on
To what was going on

For fear that it might trouble you
Or that you'd hear the howling too
And then we'd both be out of sorts
For, cold does melancholy court

Oh, I let the awful thing approach
Still wailing from its vile throat
It leaned down to my ruddy face
But I did not vacate my place
Nor show upon my face the fear
I felt when that dark thing appeared
And there we stayed, the shade and I
So deep into that winter night
Until I could not keep awake
And passed out by the fireplace