"SOUND the horn, brother; A fog comes this way." "There is no fog, comrade; Clear is the day. Never rode a high sun In warmer skies." "The fog grows thicker," The old man cries. "Pile the logs high, brother; The wind blows cold." "The wind is warm, comrade, As the wood-marigold. The lads have bared their arms, The lasses their throats." "Nay, nay; the wind, brother, Like a thin wraith floats." Now the fog is falling Like ghostly rain, And the winds are calling For the summer's slain; And the horns sound hoarsely And the logs pile high -- But who needs their comfort When he walks high On an amber ledge of sky? |