Sky-bound tabernacles, clouds, to whom stars cast, exuberantly,
Their light and strew the golden dust of Cosmos; you house
Miracles manifest, in vapour and warm air, you congregate at the
Mountain tops and, roaring thunderous, descend upon the land;
Pure-silver giants, whom no wind can scatter, an’ Sun never
Pierce with Her light, you fall like snow, shining elegantly,
Upon the olden oaks and sturdy beeches, gently garlanding
Their crowns with seas of silky fog, the divine out-pour.
O, never-melting snow, you ghosts of Heavens, mounted upon
Trees and mountain peaks, joyously conversing with angels an’
Cherub; heap dewy crystals, bejeweled rain, upon the gentle leaves
Of those sacred trees, make them shine, youthful an’ ever-bright!
And in your vapour, an’ cold, let the world rejoice, for the scorch
Of the Sun hath all but devoured the fruits of the harvest. No more!
for, invigorating rain slides down the faces of forest’s children; an’ lo,
The withered and scorched, nuptials of buds, blossom true, burgeon
Beautiful!