Through which the sun at set,
Grown round and rosy, looks with Bacchian blush,
For an old wine-god meet—
Whose brows are dripping with the grape-blood sweet,
As if his southern flush
Rejoiced him, in his northern-zone retreat.
The amber-colored air
Musical is with hum of tiny things
Held idly, struggling there,
As if the golden mist entangled were