O’er-canopied with greenness; and their hands
Have fashioned fire that springeth beautiful
Straight as a silvern lily from the ground,
Wondrously blowing; and they measure out
Glad seasons by the pulses of the stars.”...
And Balder bends above them, glory-crown’d.
Marking them as they creep upon the ground.
Busy as ants that toil without a sound,
With only gods to mark.
But list! O list! what is that cry of pain,