The Voice

From our low seat beside the fire

Where we have dozed and dreamed, and watched the glow

Or raked the ashes, stooping so

We scarcely saw the sun and rain

Through the small curtained window-pane,

Or looked much higher

Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire,

Tonight we heard a call,

A voice on the sharp air,

And felt a breath stirring our hair,

A flame within us. Something swift and tall

Swept in and out and that was all.

Was it a bright or a dark angel? Who can know?

It made no mark upon the snow;

But suddenly, in passing, snapped the chain,

Unbarred, flung wide the door

Which will not shut again:

And so we cannot sit here any more.

We must arise and go.

The world is cold without

And dark and hedged about

With mystery and enmity and doubt,

But we must go,

Though yet we do not know

Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow