A SONG IN SEASON

When in the wind the vane turns round,

And round, and round;

And in his kennel whines the hound;

When all the gable eaves are bound

With icicles of ragged gray,

A glinting gray;

There is little to do, and much to say,

And you hug your fire and pass the day

With a thought of the springtime, dearie.

When late at night the owlet hoots,

And hoots, and hoots;

And wild winds make of keyholes flutes;

When to the door the goodman's boots

Stamp through the snow the light stains red,

The fire-light's red;

There is nothing to do, and all is said,

And you quaff your cider and go to bed

With a dream of the summer, dearie.

When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,

And crows, and crows;

And from the barn the milch-cow lows;

And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose,

And the still skies show a star or two,

Or one or two;

There is little to say, and much to do,

And the heartier done the happier you,

With a song of the winter, dearie.