With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe Though in their souls, which thus each Clarens, sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the Love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought, Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above, 925 wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, — stands where it stood, The very glaciers have his colors caught, Offering to him and his a populous soliAnd sunset into rose-hues wrought sees them By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought tude, CII A populous solitude of bees and birds, 950 And fairy-formed and many-colored things, |