III

And now—methinks I gaze upon thee now,

As on a serpent in his agonies

Awestricken Indians; what time laid low

And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies,

When the new year warmbreathéd on the earth,

Waiting to light him with her purple skies,

Calls to him by the fountain to uprise.

Already with the pangs of a new birth

Strain the hot spheres of his convulséd eyes,

And in his writhings awful hues begin

To wander down his sable-sheeny sides,

Like light on troubled waters: from within

Anon he rusheth forth with merry din,

And in him light and joy and strength abides;

And from his brows a crown of living light

Looks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night.