Whirled before the crocus, the year’s new gold.
Hung the hooky beak up aloft the arrowhead
Reddened through his feathers for our dear fold.
God! of whom music
And song and blood are pure,
The day is never darkened
That had thee here obscure.
VI.
Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above:
Rocks were they to look on, and earth climbed air!