Xciii

When in the spring the swallows all return, And the bleak bitter sea grows mild once more, With all its thunders softened to a sigh;

When to the meadows the young green comes back, And swelling buds put forth on every bough, With wild-wood odours on the delicate air;

Ah, then, in that so lovely earth wilt thou With all thy beauty love me all one way, And make me all thy lover as before?

Lo, where the white-maned horses of the surge, Plunging in thunderous onset to the shore, Trample and break and charge along the sand!