Iii

Into the heav’n the sun comes slow, All red and frowsy: Out of the shed the muffled low Of the cattle comes; the rooster’s crow Sounds strangely distant beneath the snow And dull and drowsy.

Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn, When the snow makes ghostly the wayside thorn, And hills of pearl are the shocks of corn, And the old clock ticks, “Tick-tock, tick-tock;” And the goodman bustles about the barn-- Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn! Sing, Ho!