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THE snows outside are white and white,

The gusty flue shouts through the night,

And by the lonely chimney light

   I sit and dream of summer.

The orchard boughs creak in the blast

That like a ghost goes shrieking past,

And coals are dying fast and fast,

   But still I dream of summer.

’Tis not the voice of falling rain,

Or dream wind blown through latticed pane,

When earth will laugh in green again,

   That makes me dream of summer.

But hopes will then have backward flown,

Like fleets of promise long out-blown,

And Love once more will greet his own,—

   This is my dream of summer.

poem by

William Wilfred Campbell