Tidings

My tidings for you: the stag bells,

Winter snows, summer is gone.

Wind high and cold, low the sun,

Short his course, sea running high.

Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone—

The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.

Cold has caught the wings of birds;

Season of ice—these are my tidings.

(old Irish poem “Summer is gone”

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32030/32030-h/32030-h.htm#Page_56)

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