Iii

Now the sky of December gray drips and drips, And eaves of the barn the icicle tips, And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips, And the cattle shiver the fields among: Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips, And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips, What, what shall be said or be sung, With my lips pressed warm to your lips!