Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (1863–1944)

NOW winds of winter glue

Their tears upon the thorn,

And earth has voices few,

And those forlorn.

And ’tis our solemn night

When maidens sand the porch

And play at Jack ’s Alight

With burning torch,

Or cards, or Kiss i’ the Ring—

While ashen faggots blaze,

And late wassailers sing

In miry ways.

Then, dear my wife, be blithe

To bid the New Year hail

And welcome—plough, drill, scythe,

And jolly flail.

For though the snows he’ll shake

Of winter from his head,

To settle, flake by flake,

On ours instead;

Yet we be wreathèd green

Beyond his blight or chill,

Who kiss’d at seventeen,

And worship still.

We know not what he’ll bring;

But this we know to-night—

He doth prepare the Spring

For our delight.

With birds he’ll comfort us,

With blossoms, balms, and bees,

With brooks, and odorous

Wild breath o’ the breeze.

Come then, O festal prime!

With sweets thy bosom fill

And dance it, dripping thyme,

On Lantick hill.

West wind awake! and comb

Our garden blade from blade—

We, in our little home,

Sit unafraid.