Immaculate, the manners of the morn.
Something we thought is blotted; we resolved,
Is shaken; we renounced, returns again.
Young.
Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom
Of evening, over brake, and bloom,
And meadow, slowly breathing bare
The round of space, and rapt below
Through all the dewy-tassell’d wood,