SING me no more such ditties: they are well For the last gossips, when the snowy wind Howls in the chimney till the very taper Trembles with its blue flame, and the bolted gates Rattle before old winter's palsied hand. If you will sing, let it be cheerily Of dallying love. There's many a one among you Hath sung, beneath our oak trees to his maiden, Light bird-like mockeries, fit for love in springtime. Sing such a one. |