When thistle-blows do lightly float

About the pasture-height,

And shrills the hawk a parting note,

And creeps the frost at night,

Then hilly ho! though singing so,

And whistle as I may,

There comes again the old heart pain

Through all the livelong day.

In high wind creaks the leafless tree

And nods the fading fern:

The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be,

And cold the sun does burn.

The ho, hollo! though calling so,

I cannot keep it down;

The tears arise unto my eyes,

And thoughts are chill and brown.

Far in the cedars’ dusky stoles,

Where the sere ground-vine weaves,

The partridge drums funereal rolls

Above the fallen leaves.

And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so,

It stills no whit the pain;

For drip, drip, drip, from bare branch-tip,

I hear the year’s last rain.

So drive the cold cows from the hill,

And call the wet sheep in;

And let their stamping clatter fill

The barn with warming din.

And ho, folk, ho! though it is so

That we no more may roam,

We still will find a cheerful mind

Around the fire at home!

—C. L. Cleaveland.