Soft as the tears upon the lids of night,
Upon the droughty land my drops alight
To loose the bounden earth,
To tend the violet's birth.
To weave upon the woodland and the hill
Garlands — and garlands still !
Canst thou not tell my touch upon the pane,
My lisping laughter in the sweet refrain
Of wind and wave and sky?
And, when the storm is high,
My clamorous beat, that mingles with the call
Of foss and foam and fall ?
I give my gift of bounties uncurtailed,
Of growth, and grace unvaried and unveiled ;
By me the desert grows
The myrtle and the rose,
And every blade beneath the heaven of blue
Drinks of my crystal dew.
