Brighter thy glow as golden pomp grows sere,
O pale-hued Hesper of the westering year!
III.
No dreary harbinger art thou of woe,
Of barren days, and warm life lost in death:
On heav’n-kissed peaks is born the icy breath
Whose touch unfolds the flowers of the snow.
Spring’s buds, close-folded, lie along the bare
And shivering boughs where calls the wild-voiced wind,
And fine the leafless tracery is lined