AUTUMN LEAVES : WINTER SNOW.

Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers: And ye the Walks have been Where Maids have spent their houres. You have beheld, how they With Wicker Arks did come To kisse, and beare away The richer Couslips home. Ye have heard them sweetly sing And seen them in a Round: Each Virgin, like a Spring, With Hony-succles crowned. But now, we see, none here, Whose silverie feet did tread, And with dishevelled Haire, Adorned this smoother Mead. Like Unthrifts, having spent, Your stock, and needy grown, Ye are left here to lament Your poore estates, alone. Robert Herrick

The days are cold, the nights are long, The North wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou? Nay! start not at the sparkling light; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane Bedropped with rain: Then, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day. Dorothy Wordsworth

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells— Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. John Keats

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo bird. Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago; Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. William Wordsworth

The heaving roses of the hedge are stirred By the sweet breath of summer, and the bird Makes from within his jocund voice be heard. The winds that kiss the roses sweep the sea Of uncut grass, whose billows rolling free Half drown the hedges which part lea from lea. But soon shall look the wondering roses down Upon an empty field cut close and brown, That lifts no more its height against their own. And in a little while those roses bright, Leaf after leaf, shall flutter from their height, And on the reapèd fields lie pink and white. And yet again the bird that sings so high Shall ask the snow for alms with piteous cry; Take fright in his bewildering bower, and die. Canon Dixon

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. Come, months, come away; Put on white, black, and grey; Let your light sisters play— Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. Percy Bysshe Shelley

When that I was and a little tinie boy, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine: A foolish thing was but a toy, For the raine it raineth every day. But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine: 'Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate, For the raine it raineth every day. But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine: By swaggering could I never thrive, For the raine it raineth every day. But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the raine, With tos-pottes still had drunken heades,— For the raine it raineth every day. A great while ago the world begon, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine, But that's all one, our Play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day. William Shakespeare

The feathers of the willow Are half of them grown yellow Above the swelling stream; And ragged are the bushes, And rusty are the rushes And wild the clouded gleam. The thistle now is older, His stalk begins to moulder, His head is white as snow; The branches all are barer, The linnet's song is rarer The robin pipeth now. Canon Dixon

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day. Emily Brontë

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A tress of golden hair, A drownèd maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley

Break, break, break, On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfred, Lord Tennyson

O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! II Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystàlline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O, uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Percy Bysshe Shelley

That wind, I used to hear it swelling; With joy divinely deep; You might have seen my hot tears welling, But rapture made me weep. I used to love on winter nights To lie and dream alone Of all the rare and real delights My lonely years had known; And oh!—above the best—of those That coming time should bear, Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose, Still beaming bright and fair. Emily Brontë

Mother.Alice, dear, what ails you, Dazed and white and shaken? Has the chill night numbed you? Is it fright you have taken? Alice.Mother, I am very well, I felt never better; Mother, do not hold me so, Let me write my letter. Mother.Sweet, my dear, what ails you? Alice.No, but I am well. The night was cold and frosty, There's no more to tell. Mother.Ay, the night was frosty, Coldly gaped the moon, Yet the birds seemed twittering Through green boughs of June. Soft and thick the snow lay, Stars danced in the sky, Not all the lambs of May-day Skip so bold and high. Your feet were dancing, Alice, Seemed to dance on air, You looked a ghost or angel In the starlight there. Your eyes were frosted starlight, Your heart, fire, and snow. Who was it said "I love you?" Alice.Mother, let me go! Robert Graves

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passèd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbèd sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme. John Keats

Cold cold! Cold to-night is broad Moylurg, Higher the snow than the mountain-range, The deer cannot get at their food. Cold till Doom! The storm has spread over all: A river is each furrow upon the slope, Each ford a full pool. A great tidal sea is each loch, A full loch is each pool: Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross, No more can two feet get there. The fish of Ireland are a-roaming, There is no strand which the wave does not pound, Not a town there is in the land, Not a bell is heard, no crane talks. The wolves of Cuan-wood get Neither rest nor sleep in their lair, The little wren cannot find Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon. Keen wind and cold ice Has burst upon the little company of birds, The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking, Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood. Cosy our pot on its hook, Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon: The snow has crushed the wood here, Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo. Glenn Rye's ancient bird From the bitter wind gets grief; Great her misery and her pain, The ice will get into her mouth. From flock and from down to rise— Take it to heart!—were folly for thee; Ice in heaps on every ford— That is why I say "cold"!

Cauld blows the wind frae north to south, And drift is driving sairly; The sheep are couring[97] in the heugh,[98] Oh sirs! it's winter fairly. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; I'd rather gae supperless to my bed, Than rise in the morning early. Loud rairs the blast amang the woods, The branches tirling barely, Amang the chimley taps it thuds, And frost is nippin sairly. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; To sit a' the night I'd rather agree, Than rise in the morning early. The sun peeps o'er the southlan' hill, Like ony tim'rous carlie[99]; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again, And that we find severely. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; When snaw blaws into the chimley cheek, Wha'd rise in the morning early. Nae linties[100] lilt on hedge or bush, Poor things, they suffer sairly; In cauldrife[101] quarters a' the night, A' day they feed but sparely. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; Nae fate can be waur,[102] in winter time, Than rise in the morning early. John Hamilton

... So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still In rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.... William Wordsworth

When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, "O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!" With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken. Robert Bridges

Oh the falling Snow! Oh the falling Snow! Where does it all come from? Whither does it go? Never never laughing, Never never weeping, Falling in its Sleep, Forever ever sleeping— From what Sleep of Heaven Does it flow, and go Into what Sleep of Earth, The falling falling Snow? Eleanor Farjeon

Let us walk in the white snow In a soundless space; With footsteps quiet and slow, At a tranquil pace, Under veils of white lace. I shall go shod in silk, And you in wool, White as a white cow's milk, More beautiful Than the breast of a gull. We shall walk through the still town In a windless peace; We shall step upon white down, Upon silver fleece, Upon softer than these. We shall walk in velvet shoes: Wherever we go Silence will fall like dews On white silence below. We shall walk in the snow. Elinor Wylie

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!" At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood A furlong from their door. They wept—and, turning homeward, cried "In heaven we all shall meet!" —When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall: And then an open field they crossed, The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came: They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! —Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. William Wordsworth

"Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw. "Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death is at my e'en Closing them to sleep, "Let nane tell my father, Or my mither sae dear; I'll meet them baith in heaven At the Spring o' the year." Allan Cunningham

The smothering dark engulfs relentlessly With nightmare tread approaching steadfastly; All horrors thicken as the daylight fails And, is it wind, or some lost ghost that wails? Tongue cannot tell the stories that beset, With livid pictures blackness dense as jet, Or that wild questioning—whence we are; and why; If death is darkness; and why I am I. The children look through the uneven pane Out to the world, to bring them joy again; But only snowflakes melting into mire Without, within the red glow of the fire. They long for something wonderful to break This long-drawn winter wistfulness, and take Shape in the darkness; threatening like Fate There comes a hell-like crackling from the grate. But hand in hand they urge themselves anear And watch the cities burning bright and clear; Faces diabolical and cliffs and halls And strangely-pinnacled, molten castle walls. Tall figures flicker on the ceiling stark Then grimly fade into one ominous dark; Dream terrors iron-bound throng on them apace, And dusk with fire, and flames with shadows race. Gwen John

Seynt Stevene was a clerk, In kyng Herowdės halle, And servyd him of bred and cloth, As every kyng befalle. Stevyn out of Kechoun cam, Wyth boris bed on honde, He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght Over Bedlem stonde. He kyst adoun the bores hed, And went into the halle: "I forsake the, kyng Herowde, And thi werkės alle. "I forsak the, kyng Herowde, And thi werkės alle: Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born, Is better than we alle." "Quhat eylyt the, Stevene? Quhat is the befalle? Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk In kyng Herowdės halle?" "Lakyt me neyther mete ne drynk In kyng Herowdės halle; Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born, Is better than we alle." "Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn, art thu wod? Or thu gynnyst to brede? Lakyt the eyther gold or fe, Or ony rychė wede?" "Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, Ne non rychė wede; Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born, Shal helpyn us at our nede." "That is al so soth, Stevyn, Al so soth, I wys, As this capon crowė schel That lyth her in myn dych." That word was not so sonė seyd, That wordė in that halle, The capon crew, Christus natus est! Among the lordės alle. "Rysyt up, myn túrmentowres Be to and al be on, And ledyt Stevyn out of this town, And stonyt hym wyth ston." Tokyn hem Stevene, And stonyd hym in the way: And therfor is his evyn On Crystės owyn day.

As I in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat, Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright, Did in the air appear: Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though his floods should quench his flames, Which with his tears were fed: "Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born, In fiery heats I fry,[103] Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire, but I! My faultless breast the furnace is, The fuel wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The ashes shames and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals; The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defilèd souls: For which, as now on fire I am, To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood." With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto my mind That it was Christmas Day. Robert Southwell

The holly and the ivy, Now both are full-well grown, Of all the trees that are in the wood, The holly bears the crown. O the rising of the sun, The running of the deer, The playing of the merry Organ, Sweet singing in the quire. Sweet singing in the quire. The holly bears a blossom, As white as lily-flower; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, To be our sweet Saviour. O the rising of the sun,... The holly bears a berry, As red as any blood; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, To do poor sinners good. O the rising of the sun,... The holly bears a prickle, As sharp as any thorn; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, On Christmas Day in the morn. O the rising of the sun,... The holly bears a bark, As bitter as any gall; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, For to redeem us all. O the rising of the sun,... The holly and the ivy, Now both are full well grown, Of all the trees that are in the wood, The holly bears the crown. O the rising of the sun, The running of the deer, The playing of the merry Organ, Sweet singing in the quire. Sweet singing in the quire.

... Wolcum be thu, hevene kyng, Wolcum, born in on morwenyng, Wolcum for home[104] we shal syng, Wolcum yol. Wolcum be ye Stefne and Jon, Wolcum Innocentes everychon, Wolcum Thomas martyr on, Wolcum yol. Wolcum be ye, good newe yere, Wolcum twelthe-day, bothe infer,[105] Wolcum syentės lef[106] and der, Wolcum yol. Wolcum be ye Candylmesse, Wolcum be ye qwyn of blys, Wolcum both to mor and lesse, Wolcum yol. Wolcum be ye that am her,[107] Wolcum alle and mak good cher, Wolcum alle another yer, Wolcum yol.

Nay, Ivy, nay, Hyt shal not be, I wys; Let Holy hafe the maystry, As the maner[108] ys. Holy stond in the halle, Fayre to behold; Ivy stond wythout the dore, She ys ful sore a-cold. Nay, Ivy, nay ... Holy and hys mery men, They dawnsyn and they syng; Ivy and hur maydenys, They wepyn and they wryng. Nay, Ivy, nay ... Ivy hath a kybe,[109] She kaght yt wyth the colde, So mot thay all haf ae, That wyth Ivy hold. Nay, Ivy, nay ... Holy hath berys, As rede as any rose, The foster[110] and the hunter Kepe hem[111] fro the doos. Nay, Ivy, nay ... Ivy hath berys, As blake as any slo, Ther com the oulė, And ete hym as she goo. Nay, Ivy, nay ... Holy hath byrdys, A ful fayre flok, The nyghtyngale, the poppynguy, The gayntyl lavyrok. Nay, Ivy, nay ... Gode Ivy [tell me] What byrdys ast thu?[112] Non but the howlat, That kreye[113] how, how! Nay, Ivy, nay, Hyt shal not be, I wys, Let Holy hafe the maystry, As the maner ys.

When Isicles hang by the wall, And Dicke the shepheard blowes his naile, And Tom beares Logges into the hall, And Milke comes frozen home in paile: When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle, Then nightly sings the staring Owle, Tu-whit to-who A merrie note, While greasie Jone doth keele[114] the pot. When all aloud the winde doth blow, And coifing drownes the Parson's saw; And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marrian's nose lookes red and raw; When roasted Crabs[115] hisse in the bowle, Then nightly sings the staring Owle, Tu-whit to-who A merrie note, While greasy Jone doth keele the pot. William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter winde, Thou art not so unkinde As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keene, Because thou art not seene, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho! sing heigh ho, unto the green holly, Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly, This Life is most jolly. Freize, freize, thou bitter skie, That dost not bight so nigh As benefitts forgot; Though thou the waters warpe, Thy sting is not so sharpe, As friend remembered not. Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly, Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly, This Life is most jolly. William Shakespeare