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16
PASTORALS.
Sweetest wine for softest pressing,
Aromatic, running o'er ;
Leaves and lips alike caressing :
Plenty still doth rule the store ;
Surely all the sun must be
Underneath our feasting tree.
Rain-drops, tear-drops,
All the world is weeping ;
Not a sorrow lieth still,
Streaming clouds have drowned the hill,
And the sun is sleeping.
White clouds, bright clouds,
Through the nimbus peeping, —
Is it thunder, is it rain ?
Will the darkness come again ?
Or the light up-creeping ?
Swift light, strong light,
O'er the zenith sweeping ;
Now the sun awakes to reign,
Sweetness overcometh pain,
Joy from sorrow reaping.
