The Crone sits in her rocking chair
And roasts the chestnuts on the coals.
Outside, December branches bear
A coat of frost in curling scrolls.
She frightens children with her eyes
And thumps her cane, a solemn beat--
But, ah, her words are gentle, wise,
A waning crescent at her feet.
Her death draws near; she knows it so,
But does not fear what it bring
For underneath the fallen snow,
The tulip bulbs are dreaming spring.
And roasts the chestnuts on the coals.
Outside, December branches bear
A coat of frost in curling scrolls.
She frightens children with her eyes
And thumps her cane, a solemn beat--
But, ah, her words are gentle, wise,
A waning crescent at her feet.
Her death draws near; she knows it so,
But does not fear what it bring
For underneath the fallen snow,
The tulip bulbs are dreaming spring.