What weather loves my soul the best? What day Doth strongest to my spirit make appeal? Is it a sky of blue, or scud of gray, Which doth of my affection bear the seal? Fair is the summer's day, the cloudless sky, When o'er the mead the gentle zephyrs run, And from his azure dwelling place on high, All unobstructed shines the golden sun. That day I love. Aye, who doth not? And yet Another wakes in me a joy more deep; When leaden are the skies, the woodlands wet, And from the dark north-east the winds do sweep. Methinks, long centuries back, in Scandia old, Such weather bred my viking forbears bold. |