Hold your hands to the blaze;
Winter is here With the short cold days, Bleak, keen and drear.
Was there ever a day With hawthorn along the way Where you wandered in mild mid-May With your dear?
That was when you were young And the world was gold;
Now all the songs are sung, The tales all told.
You shiver now by the fire Where the last red sparks expire;
Dead are delight and desire:
You are old.
