100
THE WINTER SOLSTICE.
How shall we live now earth is bare,
And the sun himself is cold,
And the blast of the bitter north goes by
Bemoaning wood and plain?
And the sun himself is cold,
And the blast of the bitter north goes by
Bemoaning wood and plain?
Wait! there's a thrill in the air!
See! in the south forlorn
The great sun stays his wandering beams,
And a new year finds its morn!
The stars are a-watch, and the moon;
The wailing wind drops low;
There 's a murmur of daffodil meadows,
And of songs in the sylvan shadows,
And banks where the violets blow!
Let fires be lit, let shrines be decked,
And joy be lord of woe!—
The sun, victorious, mounts the sky,
And God for earth is born!
See! in the south forlorn
The great sun stays his wandering beams,
And a new year finds its morn!
The stars are a-watch, and the moon;
The wailing wind drops low;
There 's a murmur of daffodil meadows,
And of songs in the sylvan shadows,
And banks where the violets blow!
Let fires be lit, let shrines be decked,
And joy be lord of woe!—
The sun, victorious, mounts the sky,
And God for earth is born!
