Silent Is The House: All Are Laid Asleep: One Alone Looks Out O'Er The Snow-Wreaths Deep, Watching Every Cloud, Dreading Every Breeze That Whirls The Wildering Drift, And Bends The Groaning Trees. Cheerful Is The Hearth, Soft The Matted Floor; Not One Shivering Gust Creeps Through Pane Or Door; The Little Lamp Burns Straight, Its Rays Shoot Strong And Far: I Trim It Well, To Be The Wanderer'S Guiding-Star. Frown, My Haughty Sire! Chide, My Angry Dame! Set Your Slaves To Spy; Threaten Me With Shame: But Neither Sire Nor Dame Nor Prying Serf Shall Know, What Angel Nightly Tracks That Waste Of Frozen Snow. What I Love Shall Come Like Visitant Of Air, Safe In Secret Power From Lurking Human Snare; What Loves Me, No Word Of Mine Shall E'Er Betray, Though For Faith Unstained My Life Must Forfeit Pay. Burn, Then, Little Lamp; Glimmer Straight And Clear Hush! A Rustling Wing Stirs, Methinks, The Air: He For Whom I Wait, Thus Ever Comes To Me; Strange Power! I Trust Thy Might; Trust Thou My Constancy.