Or fall in fruitful showers of rain.
Were there no brooks, there'd be no bread—
Then tell me, how could man be fed?
No man, nor beast, or plant, or flower,
Without us could survive an hour;—
The feathered songsters of the grove.
Would cease to chant their notes of love.
Earth would become a scene of gloom—
One vast extended direful tomb.—
And I must tell thee, ere I go,