And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadowDews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damageOf vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting.Winter, too, if one told of it — bird-slaying —Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought —Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couchesWithout a wind, the sea would slumber falling— Why must one mourn these? O’er and gone is labour: