Wets but her lips, and parts the showers
Among her thousand plants and flowers:
Those take their small and stinted size,
Not drunkard-like, to fall, but rise.
The sober sea observes her tide
Even by the drunken sailor's side;
The roaring rivers pressing high
Seek to get in her company;
She, rising, seems to take the cup,
But other rivers drink all up.