And their sweet limbs’ arrested holiday
In crystal carved engarlandeth the mountains.
Through such vast fields of sleep how dare we roam,
April and I,
And from its eyrie bid the torrent foam,
And virgin meads grow starrier than the sky
With scattered cowslip and with drifted bell?
Or where austerely looms an Alpine giant
Set a young almond rosily defiant
To be our sentinel?