To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,
Then something was said or was sung,
And I remembered as much as I durst.
III
Now the sky of December gray drips and drips,
And eaves of the barn the icicle tips,
And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips,
And the cattle shiver the fields among:
Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips,
And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips,