Act 4 — THE WINNOWER TO THE WINDS (From Joachim de Bellay)

To yon light troop, who fly On wing that hurries by The wide world over, And with soft sibilance Bid every shadow dance Of the glad cover. These violets I consign Lilies and sops-in-wine Roses, all yours, These roses vermeil-tinctured Their graces new-uncinctured And gilly-flowers. So with your gentle breath Blow on the plain beneath Through my grange blow, What time I swink and strain, Winnowing my golden grain In noontide’s glow.