The John's wort has finished its bloom
It dries in the loft above timbered rooms.
The perch in the lake, the sun-dew of the bog
Refresh in the haze of the early autumn fog.

The birch beer is bubbling beside a wood burning stove.
Soon the sap will be running and we will go to the grove.
Now, you by the fire, the tales you tell....
Nuzzeling you necture, I fall to your spell.