Towards the Noel that morte saison
i(Christ make the shepherds' homage dear!)/i
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
i(Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)/i
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghost I dream upon?
i(What of the magians' scented gear?)/i
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
i(Such as I drink to mine fashion)/i
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won?
i(Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!)/i
Where are athe lips mine lay upon,
Aye! where are the glances feat and clear
That bade my heart his valor don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown meer
i(Who knows whose was that paragon?)/i
Wineing 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
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.