The winter eve is clear and chill: br the world of air is folded still; br the quiet hour expects the moon; br and yon my home awaits me soon br behind the panes that come and go br with dusk and firelight wavering low: br and I must bid the prompting cease br that bids me, in this charmed peace, br — as tho' the hour would last my will — br follow the roads and follow still br the dream that holds my heart in trance br and lures it to the fabled chance br to find, beyond these evening ways, br the morning and the woodland days br and meadows clear with gold, and you br as once, ere I might dare to woo.