And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun,
And old folk, by the new fire’s ruddy glow,
Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago!
Those tales—ah, most of all, we begged to hear
The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had—
How, in the darkening undertime of year,
When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad,
That blessèd time when nothing can be sad
(Such peace through Christ’s dear might encircles all),
How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad—