“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,