The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,

   And centres its gaze on me;

The stars, like eyes in reverie,

Their westering as for a while forborne,

   Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in,

   The green logs steam and spit;

The half-awakened sparrows flit

From the riddled thatch; and owls begin

   To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know

   Sweet scenes are impending here;

That all is prepared; that the hour is near

For welcomes, fellowships, and flow

   Of sally, song, and cheer;

That spigots are pulled and viols strung;

   That soon will arise the sound

Of measures trod to tunes renowned;

That She will return in Love’s low tongue

   My vows as we wheel around.