With a turn of his magical rod, That extended and suddenly shone, From the round of his glory some god Looks forth and is gone.

To the summit of heaven the clouds Are rolling aloft like steam; There's a break in their infinite shrouds, And below it a gleam. O'er the drift of the river a whiff Comes out from the blossoming shore; And the meadows are greening, as if They never were green before.

The islands are kindled with gold And russet and emerald dye; And the interval waters outrolled Are more blue than the sky. From my feet to the heart of the hills The spirits of May intervene, And a vapor of azure distills Like a breath on the opaline green.

Only a moment!—and then The chill and the shadow decline On the eyes of rejuvenate men That were wide and divine.