But let no footstep beat the floor,
⁠Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
⁠For who would keep an ancient form
Through which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast,
⁠Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;
⁠No dance, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
⁠Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
⁠Ran out your measur'd arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good.