in your basket, your horn of reeds woven?
What bear Ye, my Lady, upon Your stooped back?
What do you bring, from fields not yet frozen
By Winter's harsh hand, what fills up Your pack?
Oh, what do You carry that weighs on Your shoulders?
What harvest dost burden my dear Lady so?
What reaping so heavy from an Earth grown colder
By Winter's harsh hand, what have You to show?
I bear in my basket the babes of the season,
The fruits and the grains from the fields I have sown.
I've gathered them up for the ground is soon freezing
By Winter's harsh hand. I bring the meal home.
Come look in my horn of reeds woven tightly.
What see ye, my children, that fills full its curve?
What harvest is born here? What miracles mighty?
Now that Winter's harsh hand My sentence dost serve?
We see in your basket the children of New Year;
The fruits of the seeds we planted months past.
We see in your great pack the harvest of actions
Now stilled by the harsh hand of Winter at last.
There is in your fine horn plenty of reaping;
Lessons hard learned by Thy trial and Thy test.
And blessings unending to gentle our sleeping
As Winter's harsh hand brings us comfort and rest.