To-morrow, if you wish it so, my guests I pray you’ll be!
The door you’ll know by the fragrant scent, the scent of the firing tea.
XXIII.
Awhile ’tis cold, and then ’tis warm, when I want to fire my tea,
The sky is sure to shift and change—and all to worry me;
When the sun goes down on the western hills, on the eastern there is rain!
And however fair he promises, he promises in vain.
XXIV.
To-day the tint of the western hills is looking bright and fair,
And I bear my crate to the stile,[343] and wait my fellow toiler there;