Sooth ’tis, old Friend,

Thou banishest

The golden rest

Of the hours;

Dost cruelly send

The birds off, and

The twinkling band

Of the flowers;

Dost lash the shadows out of the woods,

And kill the souls in the plunging floods.

Thou chillest the green,

And it departs

Into the hearts

Of the meas,

And dreams of sheen,

Grasses and leaves,

Blossoms and sheaves,

And of trees;

Thou foldest all colours up in mould,

And touchest the aching light with cold.

There is no gloom

Of vanished wold,

Inlaid with gold,

But glens,

And heights in bloom,

And shadowing woods,

And tumbling floods,

And plains,

Of Summer in the core of the world,

And golden skies are there unfurled.

The Fairies keep

A revel there,

And banish care

With mirth;

When snows are deep,

And woods are cross,

Enjoy our loss

In the Earth;

The leaves and grass and water-springs,

The glorious world with its living things,

Each happy thought that goes on wings,

And sings,

Or thinks itself in blossomings

Of red and gold,

All bless the cold,

That ruleth with an iron hand

To build in the Earth a Fairyland.

At Christmas tide,

On country farms

In games and charms

Thou thrivest;

By deep hearth side,

When tales are told

And songs are trolled,

As through the mould

Thou drivest

The shuddering flowers, thou dost begin

To gather us up, and drive us in.

For all, whom care

Or labour drew

From old to new

In the year,

Thou dost prepare

The roaring hearth,

And garrulous mirth,

And beer

In massy cans, to season it,

Nut-brown and livelier than thy wit.

The Yule log sends

Its light abroad

O’er roof and board;

And cheerily

In shade ascends

The cricket’s song;

The winds are strong,

And drearily

Shrill past the rattling window panes, and down

The wide-mouthed chimney shriek and moan.

The hinds drop in

From fold and pen,

And graver men

From labours;

And maids who spin

And catch perchance

With smile and glance

Their neighbours;

The dame is there, and reverend sire,

And children clustering round the fire.

They quaff their ale,

Their pipes they fill,

And he, who has skill

In numbers,

Prolongs the tale;

The wheel goes round

With a drowsy sound

And slumbers.

The humming stoup goes round and round,

Till their heads go round, as the wheel goes round;

And sleep and silence go their round.

And the Fairy Summer underground

Blooms all night long in

Sleep till morning,

Buds and blossoms, without a sound.