The vine is full, the harvest near, The mountains bow with fruited grace; What pleasure in each parted tear, Yet joy remains upon the face. Beneath the oak, the child will run, Amongst these boughs, the breezes trace.
- George Gordon Lord Byron
The vine is full, the harvest near, The mountains bow with fruited grace; What pleasure in each parted tear, Yet joy remains upon the face. Beneath the oak, the child will run, Amongst these boughs, the breezes trace.