Here where thin trees stare at the afterglow
Of a rich sun that's cheered one haggard day,
You sit and sing as though the month were May.
Beguiled! Not you! Not you! Right well you know
The season's treacheries, and that cold snow
Before Spring comes may still your song for aye -
No! You are Beauty's minion and you pay
Her instant homage when her train does show
In winter's twilight or in spring's heyday.
And I, who wore her liveries as a lad,
Her almsman now, from service turned away,
Hear in your joy assurance of her rule
And know, although the times are dark and sad,
That neither bird nor poet is Time's fool.