But ah! the leaves of summer that lie on the ground! What havoc! The laughing timbrels of June, That curtained the birds’ cradles, and screened their song, That sheltered the cooing doves at noon, Of airy fans the delicate throng,— Torn and scattered around: Far out afield they lie, In the watery furrows die, In grassy pools of the flood they sink and drown, Green-golden, orange, vermilion, golden and brown, The high year’s flaunting crown Shattered and trampled down. The day is done: the tired land looks for night: She prays to the night to keep In peace her nerves of delight: While silver mist upstealeth silently, And the broad cloud-driving moon in the clear sky Lifts o’er the firs her shining shield, And in her tranquil light Sleep falls on forest and field. Sée! sléep hath fallen: the trees are asleep: The night is come. The land is wrapt in sleep. 24 Ye thrilled me once, ye mournful strains, Ye anthems of plaintive woe, My spirit was sad when I was young; Ah sorrowful long-ago! But since I have found the beauty of joy I have done with proud dismay: For howsoe’er man hug his care The best of his art is gay. And yet if voices of fancy’s choir Again in mine ear awake Your old lament, ’tis dear to me still, Nor all for memory’s sake: ’Tis like the dirge of sorrow dead, Whose tears are wiped away; Or drops of the shower when rain is o’er, That jewel the brightened day. 25 Say who is this with silvered hair, So pale and worn and thin, Who passeth here, and passeth there, And looketh out and in? That useth not our garb nor tongue, And knoweth things untold: Who teacheth pleasure to the young, And wisdom to the old? No toil he maketh his by day, No home his own by night; But wheresoe’er he take his way, He killeth our delight. Since he is come there’s nothing wise Nor fair in man or child, Unless his deep divining eyes Have looked on it and smiled. Whence came he hither all alone Among our folk to spy? There’s nought that we can call our own, Till he shall hap to die. And I would dig his grave full deep Beneath the churchyard yew, Lest thence his wizard eyes might peep To mark the things we do. 26 Crown Winter with green, And give him good drink To physic his spleen Or ever he think. His mouth to the bowl, His feet to the fire; And let him, good soul, No comfort desire. So merry he be, I bid him abide: And merry be we This good Yuletide. 27