by Charles Simic
Friends of the small hours of the night:
Stub of a pencil, small notebook,
Reading lamp on the table,
Making me welcome in your circle of light.
I care little the house is dark and cold
With you sharing my absorption
In this book in which now and then a sentence
is worth repeating again in a whisper.
Without you, there'd be only my pale face
Reflected in the black windowpane,
And the bare trees and deep snow
Waiting for me out there in the dark.