Robert Frost (1874–1963)

Storm Fear 1913

When the wind works against us in the dark,

And pelts with snow

The lower chamber window on the east,

And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,

The beast, 5

“Come out! Come out!”—

It costs no inward struggle not to go,

Ah, no!

I count our strength,

Two and a child, 10

Those of us not asleep subdued to mark

How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—

How drifts are piled,

Dooryard and road ungraded,

Till even the comforting barn grows far away, 15

And my heart owns a doubt

Whether ’tis in us to arise with day

And save ourselves unaided.