  Sing me a song of the dead world, Of the great frost deep and still, Of the sword of fire the wind hurled On the iron hill. Sing me a song of the driving snow, Of the reeling cloud and the smoky drift, Where the sheeted wraiths like ghosts go Through the gloomy rift. Sing me a song of the ringing blade, Of the snarl and shatter the light ice Of the whoop and the swing of the snow-shoe raid Through the cedar brakes. Sing me a song of the apple-loft, Of the corn and the nuts and the mounds of meal, Of the sweeping whir of the spindle soft, And the spinning-wheel. Where the ruddy gleams of the firelight dance, Where bends my love Armitage, Reading an old romance. Sing me a song of the still nights, Of the large stars steady and high, The aurora darting its phosphor lights In the purple sky.
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