Her fragrance out to invite the zephyr’s kiss:
The morning lark in wantonness of bliss
To meet the sun, with song of welcome, springs:
The little brook to her own motion sings:
The storm laughs wild—down comes the dancing rain,
The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plain
And with high glee the echoing valley rings.
The strong wind whistles in his desert caves;
The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky;
The old green wood his trusty branches waves;