On his rounded turrets beats the shower,
While his emerald flags are flapping free:
But when Summer in the fields is standing,
And his blood is stirred with light, like wine,
O’er his branches, all at once expanding,
How the starry blossoms shine!
Through the glossy leaves they burn, unfolded,
Like the breast of some sweet oriole—
Filled with fragrance, as a joy new moulded
Into being by a poet’s soul!