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.