The Stranger

When first the vaulting palm-leaves spread Their shelter over thee, The golden Cyclads danced about With merry shouts and laughter. But now,--O nakedness of plains And mountains! Withering Of green leaves everywhere! Thorns suck The green blood of the vines! No April looked on thee again; And on the desert land, The wars of elements and beasts Rage furious. But thee The snow-white swans bring back no more; Thou art for ever guest At the Hyperboreans' feast.