With more than earthly glory. One might deem
Each twig a chain of gold profusely set
With ruby, emerald, and amethyst,
Sapphire and living diamond, splendid all
And dazzling past description. Yet there lives
No balm, no melody of loving birds
Amongst the icy branches; grandeur reigns
And frigid beauty, without life or joy.
No gentle breezes woo the branches now,
To bend and kiss their sweetly sighing lips,