Wouldst thou learn what coldness is,
⁠Seek it not where Hebrus flows,
Shuddering, to the abyss;
⁠Nor where Hermon's gleaming snows,
⁠On its frozen heights, repose;
But on such a morn as this,
⁠When no blade of grass is dumb,
When the birds, low-twittering, build,
And Earth's heart is passion-thrill'd,—
⁠Come to Love's deserted home!