E’en tasteth sweet, and hath a delicate scent
As of faint flowers unseen—the flower of snows
Massed peak on peak in slumber yet unspent,
But dreaming of the Rose.
Here the great hills wear silence as a seal—
April and I,
Listening can hear the loosened snowflake steal
Down from the burdened bough that slips awry;
Here the long cry of water-nymphs at play
Freezes upon the iced lips of fountains,