Towards the Noel that morte saison (@3Christ make the shepherds' homage dear!@1) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!) Wining the ghosts of yester-year. Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (@3What of the magians' scented gear?@1) The ghosts of dead loves everyone That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wining the ghosts of yester-year. Where are the joys my heart had won? (@3Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!@1) Where are the lips mine lay upon, Aye! where are the glances feat and clear That bade my heart his valour don? I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon?) Wining the ghosts of yester-year. Prince: ask me not what I have done Nor what God hath that can me cheer But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wining the ghosts of yester-year. |