Poem by Harold Hart Crane

Fear

The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,-
But on the window licks the night.

Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No,- it is not fright...
But hold me... somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.

1. North Labrador
2. Interior
3. Voyages 4
4. Carrier Letter
5. Recitative

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