Winter / Edith Nesbit

Hold your hands to the blaze;

Winter is here

With the short cold days,

Bleak, keen and drear.

Was there ever a day

With hawthorn along the way

Where you wandered in mild mid-May

With your dear?

That was when you were young

And the world was gold;

Now all the songs are sung,

The tales all told.

You shiver now by the fire

Where the last red sparks expire;

Dead are delight and desire:

You are old.