The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting
the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like
a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles
red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like
overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried
up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water
indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto
weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in
the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
