Heap high the wood on my rusty grate
As I sit enthroned like a potentate
In my old arm chair, while the crackling blaze
Unbars the gates, to my dazzled gaze,
Of a flame bright world that my fancy weaves
Though the storm may batter the creaking eaves.

There is Norway pine from the Arctic’s chill
From wrecks that splintered off Peaked Hill;
There is stout oak fashioned by broad axe blows,
And stranger wood that the jungle grows;
For such is the tribute I levy, - these
Are the far flung gifts of the seven seas.

The surf that claws at the wind swept beach
Like skeleton fingers seems to reach
For my lonely shelter; but staunch it stands
Though its walls resound to the rattling sands
In volleys hurled by the howling blasts; -
Pile on those staves and that stump of mast!

Up the roaring chimney the black smoke goes
But O the glory that ebbs and flows
On the heat warped ceiling and buckled floor,
In green and purple; with ruddy ore
That glints in gold where the salt burns through
Mid flames that dance in an elfin blue!

My home may seem but a weathered shack
Where the cold creeps in through many a crack;
But my fire’s bright magic has changed all these
To a castle hall where I take my ease,
With the window flaunting in sparkling lines
My royal crest that the frost designs.

Yes, I am a king carefree and bold
And I laugh at the gale and the winter’s cold.
My grate? ’Tis a jewel vault of Ind.
That music wild? - It is not the wind
But my minstrel’s songs, for my heart’s desire
I have found at last in my drift wood fire!