Of the clouds about him rolled,
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, which never stops,
Of the clouds about him rolled,
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, which never stops,