The white wind of the South it blows from far away,
The black wind of the North from the gates of Hell is driven,
The gray wind of the West, maybe she blows from Heaven, 
But the red wind, the East wind's the wind of the judgment day, 

The white wind and the gray wind they bring the kindly rain,
The black wind and the gray wind they carry storm and snow; 
But when the East wind's blowing, the sleeping dead they know 
By the breath upon their feet that 'tis time to rise again. 

No ghost can wake from slumber when the North and West winds blow; 
The dead lie still and stir not, in their yellowing cerecloths bound; 
But when the East wind rustles the dead leaves above ground, 
It is the dead men's holiday, and back to earth they go. 

They open close-sealed chambers, and they rustle up the stairs; 
They enter hearts that know them and hearts that have forgot: 
They leave beside love's rosemary tear-wet forget-me-not, 
For the East's the wind of memory, and nothing else is theirs.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather proof;
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate;
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by th’ poor,
Who thither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen’s small;
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,
Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
And my content
Makes those, and my belovèd beet,
To be more sweet.
’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one;
Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day;
Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year;
The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine:
All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end,—
That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resign,
As wholly thine;
—But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.