Now are ye rulers of the upper air;
And though men surge below, not one shall dare
To scale the summit of your mystic height,
Nor breathe your breath, nor face your burning light.
The seed shall break for you, the seasons pass,
And you, serene, shall view as in a glass
The moving pageant of the happy year,
Fleeting from naked twig and garment sere,
To wrap itself in snows, to dream and dream
On budding boughs, and all the elusive gleam