Heaven, yearning toward the day,

Shines with its thunder and round its lightning rings;

And never hand yet earlier played

With that keen sword whose hilt is cloud, and fire its blade.

6.

As dropping flakes of honey-heavy dew

More soft than slumber's, fell the first note's sound

From strings the swift young hand strayed lightlier through

Than leaves through calm air wheeling toward the ground

Stray down the drifting wind when skies are blue

Nor yet the wings of latter winds unbound,

Ere winter loosen all the Æolian crew

With storm unleashed behind them like a hound.

As lightly rose and sank

Beside a green-flowered bank

The clear first notes his burning boyhood found

To sing her sacred praise

Who rode her city's ways

Clothed with bright hair and with high purpose crowned;

A song of soft presageful breath,

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