My thoughts become bright like yon edging of Pines
On the steep's lofty verge: how it blacken'd the air!
But, touched from behind by the Sun, it now shines[543]
With threads that seem part of his own silver hair.
25
Though the toil of the way[544] with dear Friends we divide,
Though by the same zephyr our temples be fanned[545]
As we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side,
A yearning survives which few hearts shall withstand:
Each step hath its value while homeward we move;—