William Morris (1834–1896)

THE WIND ’s on the wold

And the night is a-cold,

And Thames runs chill

’Twixt mead and hill.

But kind and dear

Is the old house here

And my heart is warm

Midst winter’s harm.

Rest then and rest,

And think of the best

’Twixt summer and spring,

When all birds sing

In the town of the tree,

And ye lie in me

And scarce dare move,

Lest the earth and its love

Should fade away

Ere the full of the day.

I am old and have seen

Many things that have been;

Both grief and peace

And wane and increase.

No tale I tell

Of ill or well,

But this I say:

Night treadeth on day,

And for worst or best

Right good is rest.