TEXT

My goblet’s golden lips are dry,
   And as the rose doth pine
   For dew, so doth for wine
         My goblet’s golden cup;
Rain, O! rain, or it will die;
         Rain, fill it up!

Arise and get thee wings to-night,
   Ætna! and let run o’er
   Thy wines, a hill no more,
         But darkly frown
A cloud, where eagles dare not soar,
         Dropping rain down.

[Donner, Works, 1935]