On the southeast corner
Of my house is my room
The coldest room in the house

My bed is in the southeast corner of my room
My window faces the east
At night it is open

As I lay down at night, many things I hear
The wind blows a furious howl
Past the window and I listen

It speaks to me of things past
And of things yet to be
I hear it and store the knowledge

I switch my attention
To the tree, creaking
Through the wall

I listen to its tale of sleet, snow, and rain.
I listen to its tale of time
Ne’er to come again

I fall asleep to this sweet music
And wake to see
The glorious dawn.