II
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nd now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel andravin and spoil of the snow,And the branches it brightened are broken, and shattered thetree-tops that only thy wrath could lay low,How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of theyear that exults to be bornSo strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whoselaughter puts winter and sorrow to scorn?Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thyforehead is molten: thy lips are aglowAs a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her raimentand tresses yet wasted and torn,Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feelthrough her spirit the sense of thee flow.
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