On a night of whirling snow     
When every twig and star is dead     
There is a house where I can go      
And knock and enter and be fed


With fire and wine; and as we grumble  
Winter ceases on the panes.  
The outer heights of darkness tumble  
Down and in upon our brains,


And sitting there so bitter-bright 
We build a season of our own— 
Of cynic ice and sudden white 
Blasts of understanding blown.

Mark Van Doren (1894 – 1972) was an American poet, writer and critic. 

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