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THE cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn, And centres its gaze on me; The stars, like eyes in reverie, Their westering as for a while forborne, Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in, The green logs steam and spit; The half-awakened sparrows flit From the riddled thatch; and owls begin To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know Sweet scenes are impending here; That all is prepared; that the hour is near For welcomes, fellowships, and flow Of sally, song, and cheer;

That spigots are pulled and viols strung; That soon will arise the sound Of measures trod to tunes renowned; That She will return in Love’s low tongue My vows as we wheel around.