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