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16 Sweetest wine for softest pressing, Aromatic, running o'er ; Leaves and lips alike caressing : Plenty still doth rule the store ; Surely all the sun must be Underneath our feasting tree. Rain-drops, tear-drops, All the world is weeping ; Not a sorrow lieth still, Streaming clouds have drowned the hill, And the sun is sleeping. White clouds, bright clouds, Through the nimbus peeping, — Is it thunder, is it rain ? Will the darkness come again ? Or the light up-creeping ? Swift light, strong light, O'er the zenith sweeping ; Now the sun awakes to reign, Sweetness overcometh pain, Joy from sorrow reaping.