In the glory of the dawning
Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,
On this broad piazza olden,
Where the gray streaks and the golden
Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.
The hawthorn and the holly,
Bearing berries red and jolly,
Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;
And like caps of grenadiers
The dark moss in clumps appears—