It is the day when he was born,
⁠A bitter day that early sank
⁠Behind a purple-frosty bank
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

The time admits not flowers or leaves
⁠To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
⁠The blast of North and East, and ice
Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,

And bristles all the brakes and thorns
⁠To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
⁠Above the wood which grides and clangs
Its leafless ribs and iron horns

Together, in the drifts that pass,
⁠To darken on the rolling brine
⁠That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,
Arrange the board and brim the glass;