How far to call.  
The winter night, before I closed the door,  
Came swirling in, wet and white.  
Now it hums high, whines,  
Caught in some frozen corner of the yard.  
To reach a book is useless;  
Some forlorn thought keeps reaching off my glasses,  
And I move the curtain to see dark wind,  
Cold, wild. Some sudden swell of cry  
For motion and will resounds around the air,  
And I yearn out and tremble  
To hear the voice that's muffled in the storm  
And to warm some frozen hand awhile in mine.