第13章 POEM: WINTER

Hold your hands to the blaze;

Winter is here With the short cold days, Bleak, keen and drear.

Was there ever a day With hawthorn along the way Where you wandered in mild mid-May With your dear?

That was when you were young And the world was gold;

Now all the songs are sung, The tales all told.

You shiver now by the fire Where the last red sparks expire;

Dead are delight and desire:

You are old.