By the Hearth by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

You come too late; / 'Tis far on in November. / The wind strikes bleak / Upon the cheek / That careth rather to keep warm, / (And where 's the harm? ) / Than to abate / One jot of its calm color for your sake. / Watch! See! I stir the ember / Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake.

And think you that it will? / 'T is burned, I say, to ashes. / It smoulders cold / As grave-yard mould. / I wish indeed you would not blow / Upon it so! / The dead to kill. / I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir, / Nor woman lift the lashes / Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her!