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O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, |
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Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, |
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And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, |
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To thee the spring will be a harvest time. |
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O thou, whose only book has been the light |
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Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on |
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O thou, whose only book has been the light |
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Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on |
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Night after night when phaebus was away, |
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To thee the spring shall be a triple morn. |
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O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, |
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Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, |
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And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, |
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To thee the spring shall be a harvest time. |
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O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, |
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Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, |
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O thou, whose only book has been the light |
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Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on |
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Night after night when phaebus was away, |
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To thee the spring shall be a triple morn. |
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, |
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And yet my song comes native with the warmth. |
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, |
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And yet the evening listens. |
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He who saddens at thought of idleness cannot be idle, |
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And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. |
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O thou who bent in all the autumn-storms, |
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Like the trees at the moor amidst the woeful winds. |
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To thy wretched heart the spring shall be a triple morn - |
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Alas! I still long for it! I long for it! |
