Storm and wave their tumult cease. 
See, the heav'nly galaxies, 
Fainter, even dimmer 
Is their golden glimmer 
As the morning 
Softly dawning 
Of the sun's wan ray gives warning. 
Asp and maple sighing, 
Stream and marsh replying, 
Woodcock buzzes, 
Peasant passes 
Round his filly's neck her harness. 
Now in our stove 
When it is lit, 
Grasses and twigs 
Crackle and spit, 
Soon our porridge will be boiling. 
Now with tousled brow 
Cottager, I trow, 
Seeks to light his pipe, 
And out in the field 
Leaning on a stone, 
Dalesman lifts anew his spade.