“To the Sun my heart, before all others,

Turned and felt its potent magicry;

And it called the stars its little brothers,[[791]]

And it called the Spring, God’s melody;

And each breeze in groves or woodlands fruity

Held thy spirit—and that same sweet joy

Moved the well-springs of my heart with beauty—

Those were golden days without alloy.

“Where the Spring is cool in every valley,[[792]]

And the youngest bush and twig is green,