  Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year; Come from thy fastness of the Arctic suns; Mass on the purple waste and wide frontier Thy wanish hosts and silver clarions. Then heap this sombre shoulder of the world With shifting bastions; let thy storm winds blare; Drift wide thy pallid gonfalon unfurled; And arm with daggers all the desperate air. These are but raids in dreams, and friendly brawls; Thou art a gentle giant that half sleeps, And blusters grandly to his frozen thralls, The more to charm them with the wealth he keeps: We hardly hear thy bluff and hearty word, When over the first flower sings the first bird. |
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