O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars!
To thee the spring will be a harvest time
O thou whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on
Night after night, when Phoebus was away!
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn
O fret not after knowledge. I have none
And yet my song comes native with the warmth
O fret not after knowledge! I have none
And yet the evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep