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.