(The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese) <br /> <br />YE Storms, resound the praises of your King! <br />And ye mild Seasons--in a sunny clime, <br />Midway on some high hill, while father Time <br />Looks on delighted--meet in festal ring, <br />And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing! <br />Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers, <br />Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers, <br />And the dire flapping of his hoary wing! <br />Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass; <br />With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; <br />Whisper it to the billows of the main, <br />And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, <br />That old decrepit Winter--'He' hath slain <br />That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain!<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-same-occasion/
