Morning. A lovely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. ASIA, alone.

ASIA
  FROM all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended;
  Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes
  Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes,
  And beatings haunt the desolated heart,
  Which should have learned repose; thou hast descended
  Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring!
  O child of many winds! As suddenly
  Thou comest as the memory of a dream,
  Which now is sad because it hath been sweet;
  Like genius, or like joy which riseth up
  As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds
  The desert of our life.