Wine-presses gushing,
Grape-blood, o'erflowing,
Down over gleaming
Precious stones streaming,
Leaves the bright glowing
Tops of the mountains,
Leaves the red fountains,
Widening and rushing,
Till it encloses
Green hills all flushing,
Laden with roses.
Happy ones, swarming,
Ply their swift pinions,
Glide through the charming
Airy dominions,
Sunward still fleering,
Onward, where peering
Far o'er the ocean,
Islets are dancing
With an entrancing,
Magical motion;
Hear them, in chorus,
Singing high o'er us;
Over the meadows
Flit the bright shadows;
Glad eyes are glancing,
Tiny feet dancing.
Up the high ridges
Some of them clamber,
Others are skimming