And with passion of anapæsts, like winds in pines
That moan and mutter in great gusts suddenly,
With whirl of wild wet wings of storms set free:
In mirth of might and very joy to sing,
Uplifting voice untired, I sound one sole sweet string.
Love, that is ever bitter as salt blown spray,
Yet sweet, yea sweet as wrath or wine alway,
As red warm mouths of Mænads subtly sweet;
Love, that is fleeter than the wind’s fleet feet
Soft-shod with snowflakes; love, that hath the name