Marvelling high hills up my fainting spirit,
And lend a vast lashing greenery to my coffer,
That entice me to sneak the wonderland,
A wanderer in nature thereby.
Lo! Me too already on lakeside,
The same watery hive binds me with splendour,
Mine track finds slide,
Through rocky ride on knightly granites.
This is the month, an ever visiting spirit,
Haunts the greenery, flowers and weeds,
Which rest on lakeside creased by mossy damp,
Where Sun is drear even at noon.
The pine groves with high heads,
On silent offering of prayer to snowy peaks,
Fall in still meditation,
Oblivious of afternoon companion.
The air is hush, but the gathering mists feast on cloudy rides,
And rush towards upland hamlets, and unknown bushes.
The wide breast lake reads this afternoon,
Closets by cold fronts and splendid highlands,
Waiting for starry night to embrace melancholy chill.
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