On either side the tawny, foaming stream
That bears through April with triumphal song
Dissolving winter to the brimming sea.
Yet who are they who, ever-whispering, throng,
With lean, grey lips that shudder piteously,
As if from some bright fruit of bitter-tasting core?
Nay, look not back, for, lo, in trancèd light
Love stays awhile his world-encircling flight
To wait our coming from the valley-ways;
See where, a hovering fire amid the blaze,