I 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 vegemmed with dew. 
Without, the vanter blast sings loud 
And trumpets like an angry bard; 
Within, spring with its wind and cloud 
Drifts incense sweet as precious nard. 
