as the cold winds arrive from the north,
without a word it descends so low,
when the biggest of the beasts slumber,
and the howling of the wolves heard yonder,
when 'round the wooden cottage,
as the good logs incense the pottage,
with the young and old staring,
and around the fire to catch a spark,
the night is merry with songs aloud,
the little girls busy making woolen clothes,
young lads making smooth their bows,
within the rooms are lit with candles in rows,
a glorious sight it was to see,
but all in the spirit of winter,
and far away in the great green heights,
now turned white in splendor,
wood is splintered,
axe at hand, to the delight of men,
a thought to desire their women.
all in a dream of winter...
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