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Thou, Whose Face Hath Felt The Winter's Wind
Sun of the Sleepless
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O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind
Whose eyes 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
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when phaebus was away
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind
Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars
To thee the spring shall be a harvest time.
O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind
Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when phaebus 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.
O thou who bent in all the autumn-storms
Like the trees at the moor amidst the woeful winds.
To thy wretched heart the spring shall be a triple morn -
Alas! I still long for it! I long for it!
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