Chapter XIV

Now Morning, not less lavish of her sweets, Leads us along the woodpaths -- in whose hush The quivering alchemy of the pure thrush Cools from above the balsam-dripping heats -- To find, in green retreats, 'Mid men of clay, the great, quick-hearted man Whose subtle art our human age secretes, Or him whose brush, tinct with cerulean, Blooms with soft castle-towers and cloud-capped fleets.