Harken! - teh clouds mustered 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 aesthesia are its blisses;
   Ne'er 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 quench'd 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.