III.

On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns, Hard by a river's wind-blown lisp of waves, Sit with young white-skinned Spring, whose dewy morns Laugh in his pouting cheeks which Health enslaves. There feast thee on the brede of his long hair, Where half-grown roses royal blaze. And cool-eyed primroses wide-diskéd bare, Frail stars of moonish haze, Contented lie wound in his breathing arms:-- 'Tis meet that grief should mingle with the wan, That blue of calms and gloom of storms Reign on the burning throne of dawn To glorify the world.