As when at times there breaks through branches bare

A morning vibrant with the breath of spring

About this poet-head a splendour rare

Transforms it almost to a mortal thing.

There is as yet no shadow in his glance

Too cool his temples for the laurel’s glow;

But later o’er those marble brows perchance

A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow

And single petals one by one will fall

O’er the still mouth and break its silent thrall

—The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile

As though a song were rising there the while.