This English Christmastide with thee
Far by those inland waves whose glass
Brightens and breaks by Meillerie!
Or else amidst the loveliest dells
Alp-crags with pine we’d mix our sighs;
Mourn at the sound of Christmas bells
Sniff at the smells of Christmas pies;
But thou art dead, and long dank grass
And wet mould cools thy tired hot brain;
Thou art lain down and now, alas,