Poem by Francis Bret Harte

What the Chimney Sang

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
  And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
  And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
  ”I hate the wind in the chimney.”

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
  And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Children said, as they closer drew,
  ”’Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,
’Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,
  And we fear the wind in the chimney.”

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
  And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
  Said to himself, ”It will surely snow,
And fuel is dear and wages low,
  And I’ll stop the leak in the chimney.”

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
  And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
  Was Man and Woman and Child, all three,
And said, ”It is God’s own harmony,
  This wind we hear in the chimney.”

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