I sit beside the brazier's glow, And, drowsing in the heat, I dream of daffodils that blow And lambs that frisk and bleat -- Black lambs that frolic in the snow Among the daffodils, In a far orchard that I know Beneath the Malvern hills. Next year the daffodils will blow, And lambs will frisk and bleat; But I'll not feel the brazier's glow, Nor any cold or heat. |