This page has been validated.
On Tuscan farms revolve each changeless year
The world-old toils of the world in order meet:
Labour is good and rest from labour sweet,
Kind leafage and mossed cave and living mere:
Through silver olive-orchards ploughs the steer,
And shepherds sing in shaded summer heat;
But who has eyes to track the wood-god's feet,
The wine-god's world-song who has ears to hear?
Virgil, our brainsick life cast to and fro,
Nature or Art too tired, too blind, to know,
Feels yet their secret in thy magic scroll:
That high-rapt calm so far remote from us
Yet not too steadfastly felicitous
Or too divinely alien to console.
Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
