No sorrow nor sleep, nor sick-bed's pain, Nor wintry winds, nor weather's raging, Fierce under the heavens; nor the hard frost Causeth discomfort with cold icicles. 60 Neither hail nor frost fall from the heavens, Nor wintry cloud nor water descendeth Stirred by the storms; but streams there flow, Wondrously welling and watering the earth, Pouring forth in pleasant fountains; 65 The winsome water from the wood's middle Each month of the year from the mould of earth, Cold as the sea, coursing through the woods, Breaketh abundantly. It is the bidding of the Lord That twelve times yearly that teeming land 70 The floods shall o'erflow and fill with joy. The groves are green with gorgeous bloom, And fairest of fruits; there fail not at all The holy treasures of the trees under heaven, Nor falleth from the forests the fallow blossoms, 75 The beauty of the trees; but, bounteously laden, The boughs are hanging heavy with fruit That is always new in every season. In the grassy plain all green appear, Gorgeously garnished by God in his might, 80 The forests fair. Nor fails the wood In its pleasing prospect; a perfume holy Enchanteth the land. No change shall it know Forever till he ends his ancient plan, His work of wisdom as he willed it at first. II