Fallen is leaf, dead is bloom,
Soon buried 'neath an icy tomb.
The field lies bare with harvest brought,
What once was green, now brown with rot.
But still my hearth, against the cold
Burns hot and bright like stars of old.
My heart, like fire held within
Will keep my strong 'gainst Winter's wind.
Now sky is grey and ground is white,
The sun spreads only feeble light.
The fields are buried under frost,
Bright summer days have long been lost.
But still, through night and wind and chill
A light breaks o'er the windowsill.
My hearth beneath the mantle burns,
A light in the dark, until day returns.
