Keep your brooding sorrows for dewy-misty hollows.

Here’s blue sky and lark song, drink the air. The joy that follows

Drafts of wine o’ west wind, o’ north wind, o’ summer breeze,

Never grape’s hath equalled from the wine hills by the summer seas.

Whilst the breezes live, joy shall contrive,

Still to tear asunder, and to scatter near and far

Those nets small and thin

That spider sorrows spin

In the brooding hollows where no breezes are.