There to the blest, ope
The high doors of heaven,
Sweetly sweep earthward
Their wavelets of song.

Frost robes the sward not,
Rusheth no hail-steel;
Wind-cloud ne'er wanders,
Ne'er falleth the rain.

Warding the woodholt,
Girt with gay wonder,
Sheen with the plumy shine,
Phoenix abides.

Lord of the Lleod, [207]
Whose home is the air,
Winters a thousand
Abideth the bird.

Hapless and heavy then
Waxeth the hazy wing;
Year-worn and old in the
Whirl of the earth.

Then the high holt-top,
Mounting, the bird soars;
There, where the winds sleep,
He buildeth a nest;--