VIII

I bore it to my chamber, and I planted

It in a vase full of the lightest mould;

The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted

Fell through the window-panes, disrobed of cold,

Upon its leaves and flowers; the stars which panted

In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled

Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light

Smiled on it from the threshold of the night.