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.

      I gathered shells upon the sand,

         Each shell a little perfect thing,

      So frail, yet potent to withstand

         The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting.

      Through storms no ship could dare to brave

      The little shells float lightly, save

      All that they might have lost of fine

      Shape and soft colour crystalline.

      Yet I amid the world’s wild surge

         Doubt if my soul can face the strife,

      The waves of circumstance that urge

         That slight ship on the rocks of life.

      O soul, be brave, for He who saves

      The frail shell in the giant waves,

      Will bring thy puny bark to land

      Safe in the hollow of His hand.

      O thrush, is it true?

         Your song tells

      Of a world born anew,

      Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue

         With hyacinth bells;

      Of primroses deep

         In the moss of the lane,

      Of a Princess asleep

      And dear magic to do.

      Will the sun wake the princess?  O thrush, is it true?