English Rendering
O faint and ruddy light, that from the sun’s low foot doth spill
In a moist, trembling sprinkle, while — beneath the laurel’s bough —
A thin frost, undissolved, upon the chilly branches lies still.
Yet a dim warmth, a breath almost, begins to disallow
The Winter’s rigid frown; and now the lengthening Day has won
His leave from the long Night — their ancient, silent treaty done.
