THE lamplight's shaded rose On couch and chair and wall, The drowsy book let fall, The children's heads, bent close In some deep argument, The kitten, sleepy-curled, Sure of our good intent, The hearth-fire's crackling glow: His step that crisps the snow, His laughing kiss, wind-cold. . . . Only the very old Gifts that the night-star brings, Dear homely evening-things, Dear things of all the world, And yet my throat locks tight . . . Somewhere far off I know Are ashes on red snow That were a home last night.