3.

You vapory columns that from hotsprings rise
(As from my heart such sighs)
So white against the green,
And through the day serene,
Now this, now that way lean,

And easier postures seem to take for silent contemplation,

O why not always turn towards him in speechless admiration!

But you, dark Clouds! that grate with thunder
While on the leaden gloss thereunder,
page 157 Silvery rings the fishes make,
Are glistening, fading on the Lake—

Turn, murky Clouds, O turn from him, your muttered indignation!