With statelier semblance, feigning

No fear lest death be soon:

As though the woods thus waning

Should wax to meet the moon.

As though, when fields lie stricken

By grey December's breath,

These lordlier growths that sicken

And die for fear of death

Should feel the sense requicken

That hears what springtide saith

And thrills for love, spring-stricken

And pierced with April's breath.

The keen white-winged north-easter

That stings and spurs thy sea

Doth yet but feed and feast her

With glowing sense of glee:

Calm chained her, storm released her,

And storm's glad voice was he:

South-wester or north-easter,

Thy winds rejoice the sea.

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