O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, br Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist br And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, br To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. br O thou, whose only book has been the light br Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on br Night after night when Phoebus was away, br To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. br O fret not after knowledge -- I have none, br And yet my song comes native with the warmth. br O fret not after knowledge -- I have none, br And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens br At thought of idleness cannot be idle, br And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.