There shines a silver in the air
about this winter homeland, where
the argent groves so nearly go—
whose airy hands, out-grasping know
the sky—to distance, far unseen,
blue peaks as rolling waves, and green,
that I could gaze and gazing weep!
And to return, breath\'s promise keep,
that I might know my land, my love;
dark lakes below, blue skies above.