Of the light wind is but a shrine
On which the lowliest flower may fling
Its gift of odors; when the vine
Hath lifted its coarse leaf to show
Its azure clusters to the sun,
And quickened by his amorous glow,
The curling shoots stir one by one;
When every fibre, blade, and stem
That lifteth to the arch of blue,
Is jewelled with its droplet gem,