20The summer trees are tempest-torn,The hills are wrapped in a mantle wideOf folding rain by the mad wind borneAcross the country side.His scourge of fury is lashing downThe delicate-rankèd golden corn,That never more shall rear its crownAnd curtsey to the morn.There shews no care in heaven to saveMan’s pitiful patience, or provideA season for the season’s slave,Whose trust hath toiled and died.So my proud spirit in me is sad,A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,The ruin of golden hopes she had,My delicate-rankèd corn.
20The summer trees are tempest-torn,The hills are wrapped in a mantle wideOf folding rain by the mad wind borneAcross the country side.His scourge of fury is lashing downThe delicate-rankèd golden corn,That never more shall rear its crownAnd curtsey to the morn.There shews no care in heaven to saveMan’s pitiful patience, or provideA season for the season’s slave,Whose trust hath toiled and died.So my proud spirit in me is sad,A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,The ruin of golden hopes she had,My delicate-rankèd corn.
The summer trees are tempest-torn,The hills are wrapped in a mantle wideOf folding rain by the mad wind borneAcross the country side.His scourge of fury is lashing downThe delicate-rankèd golden corn,That never more shall rear its crownAnd curtsey to the morn.There shews no care in heaven to saveMan’s pitiful patience, or provideA season for the season’s slave,Whose trust hath toiled and died.So my proud spirit in me is sad,A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,The ruin of golden hopes she had,My delicate-rankèd corn.
The summer trees are tempest-torn,The hills are wrapped in a mantle wideOf folding rain by the mad wind borneAcross the country side.His scourge of fury is lashing downThe delicate-rankèd golden corn,That never more shall rear its crownAnd curtsey to the morn.There shews no care in heaven to saveMan’s pitiful patience, or provideA season for the season’s slave,Whose trust hath toiled and died.So my proud spirit in me is sad,A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,The ruin of golden hopes she had,My delicate-rankèd corn.
The summer trees are tempest-torn,The hills are wrapped in a mantle wideOf folding rain by the mad wind borneAcross the country side.
The summer trees are tempest-torn,
The hills are wrapped in a mantle wide
Of folding rain by the mad wind borne
Across the country side.
His scourge of fury is lashing downThe delicate-rankèd golden corn,That never more shall rear its crownAnd curtsey to the morn.
His scourge of fury is lashing down
The delicate-rankèd golden corn,
That never more shall rear its crown
And curtsey to the morn.
There shews no care in heaven to saveMan’s pitiful patience, or provideA season for the season’s slave,Whose trust hath toiled and died.
There shews no care in heaven to save
Man’s pitiful patience, or provide
A season for the season’s slave,
Whose trust hath toiled and died.
So my proud spirit in me is sad,A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,The ruin of golden hopes she had,My delicate-rankèd corn.
So my proud spirit in me is sad,
A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,
The ruin of golden hopes she had,
My delicate-rankèd corn.