To Yáma's south[452] has turned away:
And she—sad widow—shines no more,
Reft of the bridal mark[453] she wore.
Himálaya's hill, ordained of old
The treasure-house of frost and cold,
Scarce conscious of the feebler glow,
Is truly now the Lord of Snow.
Warmed by the noontide's genial rays
Delightful are the glorious days:
But how we shudder at the chill