Come, winter, come, to kill dull pelf,
Love of His sweetness not Himself;
Till we can kiss His frowning face,
Unmeet our soul for summer grace.
But when the harvest-tide is nigh,
God grant His summer fill the sky,
God grant His harvest-rays be shed,
God grant His harvest-moon rise red.
Cold is the shore, and dark the tide,
Through which to His warm arms we glide