Canto CV

It is the day when he was born,

      A bitter day that early sank

      Behind a purple-frosty bank

Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

The time admits not flowers or leaves

      To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies

      The blast of North and East, and ice

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,

And bristles all the brakes and thorns

      To yon hard crescent, as she hangs

      Above the wood which grides and clangs

Its leafless ribs and iron horns

Together, in the drifts that pass,

      To darken on the rolling brine

      That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,

Arrange the board and brim the glass;

Bring in great logs and let them lie,

      To make a solid core of heat;

      Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat

Of all things ev'n as he were by:

We keep the day. With festal cheer,

      With books and music, surely we

      Will drink to him, whate'er he be,

And sing the songs he loved to hear.