Оригинален текст
thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind,
Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when phaebus was away,
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind,
Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring shall be a harvest time.
O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind,
Whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when phaebus was away,
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
and yet the evening listens.
He who saddens at thought of idleness cannot be idle,