Our knitted suet bags on many a bough
Of pine and larch. And I must plough
Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet
For little beaks to drink.
ALWYN
By Phœbus, now
Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,
That wont of yore to dally
On violet-scented lawn
With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!