THE SINGLE HOUND.
87
LXXXI.
IF pain for peace prepares,
Lo the "Augustan" years
Our feet await!
If Springs from Winter rise,
Can the Anemone's
Be reckoned up?
If night stands first, then noon,
To gird us for the sun,
What gaze—
When, from a thousand skies.
On our developed eyes
Noons blaze!
