From the round of his glory some god

Looks forth and is gone.

To the summit of heaven the clouds

Are rolling aloft like steam;

There's a break in their infinite shrouds,

And below it a gleam.

O'er the drift of the river a whiff

Comes out from the blossoming shore;

And the meadows are greening, as if

They never were green before.

The islands are kindled with gold

And russet and emerald dye;

And the interval waters outrolled

Are more blue than the sky.

From my feet to the heart of the hills

The spirits of May intervene,

And a vapor of azure distills

Like a breath on the opaline green.

[28]

Only a moment!—and then

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