OLD WINTER’S FAIRYLAND
Sooth’tis, old Friend,Thou banishestThe golden restOf the hours;Dost cruelly sendThe birds off, andThe twinkling bandOf the flowers;Dost lash the shadows out of the woods,And kill the souls in the plunging floods.Thou chillest the green,And it departsInto the heartsOf 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 gloomOf 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 keepA revel there,And banish careWith mirth;When snows are deep,And woods are cross,Enjoy our lossIn 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 blossomingsOf red and gold,All bless the cold,That ruleth with an iron handTo build in the Earth a Fairyland.At Christmas tide,On country farmsIn games and charmsThou thrivest;By deep hearth side,When tales are toldAnd songs are trolled,As through the mouldThou drivestThe shuddering flowers, thou dost beginTo gather us up, and drive us in.For all, whom careOr labour drewFrom old to newIn the year,Thou dost prepareThe roaring hearth,And garrulous mirth,And beerIn massy cans, to season it,Nut-brown and livelier than thy wit.The Yule log sendsIts light abroadO’er roof and board;And cheerilyIn shade ascendsThe cricket’s song;The winds are strong,And drearilyShrill past the rattling window panes, and downThe wide-mouthed chimney shriek and moan.The hinds drop inFrom fold and pen,And graver menFrom labours;And maids who spinAnd catch perchanceWith smile and glanceTheir 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 skillIn numbers,Prolongs the tale;The wheel goes roundWith a drowsy soundAnd 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 undergroundBlooms all night long inSleep till morning,Buds and blossoms, without a sound.Anonymous
Sooth’tis, old Friend,Thou banishestThe golden restOf the hours;Dost cruelly sendThe birds off, andThe twinkling bandOf the flowers;Dost lash the shadows out of the woods,And kill the souls in the plunging floods.Thou chillest the green,And it departsInto the heartsOf 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 gloomOf 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 keepA revel there,And banish careWith mirth;When snows are deep,And woods are cross,Enjoy our lossIn 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 blossomingsOf red and gold,All bless the cold,That ruleth with an iron handTo build in the Earth a Fairyland.At Christmas tide,On country farmsIn games and charmsThou thrivest;By deep hearth side,When tales are toldAnd songs are trolled,As through the mouldThou drivestThe shuddering flowers, thou dost beginTo gather us up, and drive us in.For all, whom careOr labour drewFrom old to newIn the year,Thou dost prepareThe roaring hearth,And garrulous mirth,And beerIn massy cans, to season it,Nut-brown and livelier than thy wit.The Yule log sendsIts light abroadO’er roof and board;And cheerilyIn shade ascendsThe cricket’s song;The winds are strong,And drearilyShrill past the rattling window panes, and downThe wide-mouthed chimney shriek and moan.The hinds drop inFrom fold and pen,And graver menFrom labours;And maids who spinAnd catch perchanceWith smile and glanceTheir 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 skillIn numbers,Prolongs the tale;The wheel goes roundWith a drowsy soundAnd 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 undergroundBlooms all night long inSleep till morning,Buds and blossoms, without a sound.Anonymous
Sooth’tis, old Friend,Thou banishestThe golden restOf the hours;Dost cruelly sendThe birds off, andThe twinkling bandOf the flowers;Dost lash the shadows out of the woods,And kill the souls in the plunging floods.
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 departsInto the heartsOf 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.
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 gloomOf 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.
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 keepA revel there,And banish careWith mirth;When snows are deep,And woods are cross,Enjoy our lossIn 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 blossomingsOf red and gold,All bless the cold,That ruleth with an iron handTo build in the Earth a Fairyland.
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 farmsIn games and charmsThou thrivest;By deep hearth side,When tales are toldAnd songs are trolled,As through the mouldThou drivestThe shuddering flowers, thou dost beginTo gather us up, and drive us in.
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 careOr labour drewFrom old to newIn the year,Thou dost prepareThe roaring hearth,And garrulous mirth,And beerIn massy cans, to season it,Nut-brown and livelier than thy wit.
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 sendsIts light abroadO’er roof and board;And cheerilyIn shade ascendsThe cricket’s song;The winds are strong,And drearilyShrill past the rattling window panes, and downThe wide-mouthed chimney shriek and moan.
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 inFrom fold and pen,And graver menFrom labours;And maids who spinAnd catch perchanceWith smile and glanceTheir neighbours;The dame is there, and reverend sire,And children clustering round the fire.
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 skillIn numbers,Prolongs the tale;The wheel goes roundWith a drowsy soundAnd 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 undergroundBlooms all night long inSleep till morning,Buds and blossoms, without a sound.
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.
Anonymous
Anonymous
THE END