Towards the Noel that morte saison
             (Christ make the shepherds’ homage dear!)
             Then when the grey wolves everychone
             Drink of the winds their chill small—beer
             And lap o’ the snows food’s gueredon
             Then makyth my heart his yule—tide cheer
             (Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)
             Wineing the ghosts of yester—year.
 
             Ask ye what ghost I dream upon?
             (What of the magians’ scented gear?)
             The ghosts of dead loves everyone
             That make the stark winds reek with fear
             Lest love return with the foison sun
             And slay the memories that me cheer
             (Such as I drink to mine fashion)
             Wineing the ghosts of yester—year.
 
             Where are the joys my heart had won?
             (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!)
             Where are athe lips mine lay upon,
             Aye! where are the glances feat and clear
             That bade my heart his valor don?
 
             I skoal to the eyes as grey—blown meer
             (Who knows whose was athat paragon?)
             Wineing the ghosts of yester—year.
 
             Prince: ask me not what I have done
             Nor what God hath that can me cheer
             But ye ask first where the winds are gone
             Wineing the ghosts of yester—year.

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