Wav’d bending to the tempest’s weight,
Nor could its depths an echo form,
Save to the wailing of the storm;
Nor bends a twig, nor breathes a breath:
’Tis silence, like the calm of death.
’Twould seem that winter had foregone,
By wrong unsurp’d, his stormy throne,
And giv’n the rightful sway again
To mild October’s placid reign.
Or rather He, whose boundless force