When all the little hills are hid in snow,
And all the small brown birds by frost are slain,
And sad and slow the silly sheep do go
All seeking shelter to and fro;
Come once again
To these familiar, silent, misty lands;
Unlatch the lockless door
And cross the drifted floor;
Ignite the waiting, ever-willing brands,
And warm thy frozen hands
By the old flame once more.
Ah, heart's desire, once more by the old fire stretch out thy hands.