Whilst the proud sky is dight
With clouds, like flowers of beauteous tint
Strewn o’er the heav’nly continent
And capering with the breeze—
Stretch’d far and wide and circling round,
And frisking through the vast profound,
As leaves frisk from the trees.
D’ye ween the meaning of my line?—
When Sol goes down that great incline,
I’d have ye think, with me,