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