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 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,

And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.



O thou who bent in all the autumn-storms,

Like the trees at the moor amidst the woeful winds.

To thy wretched heart the spring shall be a triple morn -

Alas! I still long for it! I long for it!