III.
In summer's smile, in winter's strife,
Unstirr'd, those hills are walls to me;
I want the vast, all-various life
Of the broad, circling Sea,—
Each hour in morn, or noon, or midnight's range,
That heaves or slumbers with exhaustless change,
Dash'd to the skies—steep'd in blue morning's rays—
Or back resparkling far Orion's lovely blaze.