The winter eve is clear and chill:

the world of air is folded still;

the quiet hour expects the moon;

and yon my home awaits me soon

behind the panes that come and go

with dusk and firelight wavering low:

and I must bid the prompting cease

that bids me, in this charmed peace,

— as tho’ the hour would last my will —

follow the roads and follow still

the dream that holds my heart in trance

and lures it to the fabled chance

to find, beyond these evening ways,

the morning and the woodland days

and meadows clear with gold, and you

as once, ere I might dare to woo.