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The Seasons' Comfort

Dry thine eyes, Doll! the stars above us shine;

God of His goodness made them mine and thine;

His silver have we gotten, and His gold,

Whilst there's a sun to call us in the morn

To ply the hook among amid the yellow corn,

That such a mine of pretty gems doth hold:

For there's the poppy half in sorrow,

Greeting sleepy-eyed the morrow,

And the corn-flower, dainty tire for a sweetheart sunny-poll'd.

Dry thine eyes, Doll! the woods are all our own,

The woods that soon shall take a braver tone,

What time the frosts first silver Nature's hair;

The birds shall sing their best for thee and me;

And every sunrise listeners will we be,

And so of singing get the goodliest share;

When the thrushes sing so sweetly,

We would fain be footing featly,

But our hearts dance time instead in the throbbing matin air.

Dry thine eyes, Doll! there's Love to feed our fire,

Not for the buying, but for the desire;

Winter ne'er quenched a blaze so bravely fed.

And Sleep, I wot, will grudge us not his best:

In winter earlier sink the suns to rest,

And eke the sooner shall our toils be sped;

When in the embers glowing

There'll be love-charms worth the knowing,

Or, at Yule-tide, mazes threaded, with the mistletoe o'erhead.