Broke

Morning o'er earth; he yearned for all it woke—

From the volcano's vapour-flag, winds hoist

Black o'er the spread of sea,—down to the moist

Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain,

Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again.

And this from the last book—

Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill

By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill,

Morning just up, higher and higher runs