By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,
And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.
The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers and would die, but thy return
Gives to their gladden’d hearts an overflow
Of all the power that brooded in the urn
Of their chill’d frames, and then they proudly spurn
All bands that would confine, and give to air
Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,
When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there