Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25
Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven’s wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm ’tis fresh and blue 30
As budding pines in Spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.