His beard fell like a wasted thunder at eve,
And all his robe was woven with white stars,
And on his breast a star.
The World was dark. Deep in a forest there,
Where not the rill that routed in the wood
Dared break the silence, nor one murmur of night
Wound to the stagnant, chill, and listening air,
Five children slumbering lay.
One ruddy as the red grapes of the south;
One duskier, breather of more burning air;