Many Voices/Winter

Hold your hands to the blaze; Winter is here With the short cold days, Bleak, keen and drear. Was there ever a day With hawthorn along the way Where you wandered in mild mid-May With your dear?

That was when you were young And the world was gold; Now all the songs are sung, The tales all told. You shiver now by the fire Where the last red sparks expire; Dead are delight and desire: You are old.