And silent drink. The tumult of our mirth Is worse than our mad welcoming of birth:— The thunder hath a grandeur, but the rains, Without the thunder, quench the thirst of Earth.
LXIX
74
And silent drink. The tumult of our mirth Is worse than our mad welcoming of birth:— The thunder hath a grandeur, but the rains, Without the thunder, quench the thirst of Earth.