That to every creature with clear distinction
You have fixed its marches, yet have not mixed them!
Lo! for the water wet and cold
The land as a floor firm have You laid;
For never quiet, to every quarter
Far would it flow, feeble and yielding;
It would never be able, for a truth do I know,
To stand by itself, but the earth it supports,
And some of it also sucks adown,
So that thereafter it may for the soaking
Be washed with showers. Wherefore leaf and grass
Broad over Britain are blooming and growing,
A boon to mortals. The cold earth brings
Countless fruits of marvellous kinds
For with the water wet it becomes.
But if this were not so, then would it certainly
Dry up to dust, and then be driven
By the wind afar, as often it befalls
That over the land ashes are blown.
On earth nothing were able to live,
Nor would it any more enjoy the water,
Nor dwell in it ever by any device,
For mere coldness, if You, King of angels,
Somewhat with fire the land and sea-stream
Had not mingled, and properly measured
Cold with heat by Your cunning power,
So that fire cannot lurid consume
Earth and sea, though it be seated
Firmly in either, the Father's old work.
None the less marvel to me it seems
