thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, To thee the spring will be a harvest time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on Night after night when phaebus was away, To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, To thee the spring shall be a harvest time.
O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on Night after night when phaebus was away, To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the evening listens. He who saddens at thought of idleness cannot be idle,