Now, while the Rear-Guard of the flying Year

[ZaunköniG]

Now, while the Rear-Guard of the flying Year
Rugged December, on the season’s verge,
Marshals his pale Days to the mournful dirge
Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear,

Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer;
Draw nigh, the huge flames roar upon the hearth,
And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth,
And a rich vintage poet souls hold dear;

Mark how the sweet rogue woos us! Sit thee down,
And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill,
Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown,

Till the funeral blast shall wail no more,
But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill,
And shouts of triumph peal anong the shore.