Chapter 13 No.13

'Wake, yon purple peaks arise,

Jagged, bare, through saffron skies;

Now is heard a twittering sweet,

For the mother-martins meet,

Where wet ivies, dew-besprent,

Glisten on the battlement.

Now the lark at heaven's gold gate

Aiming, sweetly chides on fate

That his brown wings wearied were

When he, sure, was almost there.