/ see the shaggy mountains throw 

 On high their plumes of oak and pine, 



And roses in hid gardens grow 

 Their garlands ruddy as old wine. 



On winter panes! There summer springs 

 Like Lark into deep skies of blue, 



And lifts itself on singing wings 



From meadow nest begemmed with dew. 



Without, the winter blast sings loud 

 And trumpets like an angry bard; 



Within, spring with its wind and cloud 

 Drifts incense sweet as precious nard. 



