The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,
       &nbsp And centres its gaze on me;
The stars, like eyes in reverie,
Their westering as for a while forborne,
       &nbsp Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in,
       &nbsp The green logs steam and spit;
The half-awakened sparrows flit
From the riddled thatch; and owls begin
       &nbsp To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know
       &nbsp Sweet scenes are impending here;
That all is prepared; that the hour is near
For welcomes, fellowships, and flow
       &nbsp Of sally, song, and cheer;

That spigots are pulled and viols strung;
       &nbsp That soon will arise the sound
Of measures trod to tunes renowned;
That She will return in Love's low tongue
       &nbsp My vows as we wheel around.