Whose airy opal, flaming far,
Makes fire of the mountain tarn.
The hosts of morning storm the sky
With streaming splendor, their bright lips
Blow laughter wild that shakes the rye,
And, from the bough, the dew that drips
On Oriana walking by.
The calling rooks swarm round the towers:
A heron sweeps through deeps of glare:
And Falconry among the bowers