Canto CV
It is the day when he was born,A bitter day that early sankBehind a purple-frosty bankOf vapour, leaving night forlorn.
The time admits not flowers or leavesTo deck the banquet. Fiercely fliesThe blast of North and East, and iceMakes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves,
And bristles all the brakes and thornsTo yon hard crescent, as she hangsAbove the wood which grides and clangsIts leafless ribs and iron horns
Together, in the drifts that pass,To darken on the rolling brineThat breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,Arrange the board and brim the glass;
Bring in great logs and let them lie,To make a solid core of heat;Be cheerful-minded, talk and treatOf all things ev’n as he were by:
We keep the day. With festal cheer,With books and music, surely weWill drink to him, whate’er he be,And sing the songs he loved to hear.