I
COME to a revel, happy men!
Far away on the hills a wine of joy
Makes golden dew in drops, that cloy
The fissures of the glen,
The crevices of rock;
Caught in its sweetness thyme and cistus lock;
The hills are white and gold
In every fold;
The hills are running milk and honey-rivers;
Yet not a thyrsus on a mountain quivers.