Of downy breasts and throbbing wings,
O’er which the friendly elm-tree heaves
An emerald roof with sculptured leaves.
· · · · · · ·
Thy duty, wingëd flame of Spring,
Is but to love and fly and sing.”
Then he chants a pathetic “palinode,” as he calls it, in December, when
“... homeless winds complain along
The columned choir once thrilled with song.
“And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise