Song The Third

Storm in his blackness forth Hangs on the suffering north. Wide go his wings, away he springs, Far back the tumult of his hair he flings, The winds are in his roaring wings. Tearing through forests, making gulfs of night, Rushes the tyrannous Might. The secret of the April bud Bursts to the dewy liquor sweet. Old men come forth to warm their blood, And chirp upon the sunny seat. Black shadows sail. Lights flash in turn: What lustre on yon showery sea! On every leaf of every tree Drops of molten glory burn. The Autumn eve, so warm and golden, Lies on the hamlet quaint and olden, Quaint and quiet. Crofts of wheat Strength and Youth are yonder reaping; Age at her door, babes at her feet, Half is spinning, half is sleeping.