Sang through, and revealed round the vines,
Bronze-orange, the crisp young leaf,
The wheat-blades tripping in lines,
A hue unillumined by sun
Of the flowers flooding grass as from founts:
All the penetrable dun
Of the Morn ere she mounts.
III.
Nor had saffron and sapphire and red
Waved aloft to their sisters below,