Vague, in a silver sheen
Rayed from their armour green,
Some aged limes upstand;
Nigh fields kindle and shine:
Beauty incarnadine!
What thrill of what Uranian wine
So flushed the placid land?
All tints of a broken wave
Light the leafy architrave,
Far up the cloudy spring;
And the ploughed soil ruddier glows
Than the ruby or the rose,
Or the moon, when the harvest goes
Beneath her blazing wing.
Trees keep the broad outpost;
Dusk, by their dusky host,
Long-loved Severn glides.
Thence, towards the hilly south,
Like a queen, battle-wroth,
Upon a vermeil saddle-cloth,
The three-spired city rides.