The Rivals

On a night of whirling snow 
When every twig and star is dead 
There is a house where I can go  
And knock and enter and be fed

With fire and wine; and as we grumble  
Winter ceases on the panes.  
The outer heights of darkness tumble  
Down and in upon our brains,

And sitting there so bitter-bright 
We build a season of our own— 
Of cynic ice and sudden white 
Blasts of understanding blown.