The cold, clear light of the moon fell here,
The west wind sighed, and the south wind brought it,
Songs of Summer year after year.
Runes of Summer, but mute and runeless,
The Castle stood; no voice was heard,
Save the harsh, discordant, wild and tuneless
Cry of bird.
“The spring rains poured, and the torrent rifted
A deeper way;—the foam-flakes fell,
Held for a moment poised and lifted,