Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind!
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?—
He is a child of wayward mind!
But with a doubt, a jealous fear,
Inspire him once—the task is o’er;
His mind is keen, his sight is clear,
No more an infant, blind no more.
“Sprezza il furor del vento.”
Unbending midst the wintry skies,