Harken The clouds musteréd in dark So painfully easing Hush! Hearest ye the yew doting Its years of yore in a mïre Each like a corpse within its grave Wrought for us a yearn of lief
'Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe Harmony and æsthesia are its blisses Ne'er ere hath it exist'd so sonorously Jostl'd away the pale drape that us had been o'erhung
Tempt'd thy shutters to open And thus quenched the hearth Thou giv'st to misery all thou hast: the cold With weal embrac'd the sprounting landscape
Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight This joy subdueth until it again waneth Save the drooping winter of stalwart
