40
THE FARM AND
Black earth, and fat behind the ploughshare's vent,
A mealy soil (for this the plough's intent)
Is best for corn; from nowhere else shall come
Such laden waggons slowly crawling home:
Or where the grumbling swain hath clear'd the wood,
And idle copse, that hath for ages stood,
Then root and branch the old bird-castles fell,
Away they soar out of their nests pell-mell: 250
Anon, beneath the onset of the share,
Glossily breaks the maiden earth laid bare.
For hungry brash, and highlands, scarce afford
Low cassia and sweet rosemary for bees;
And gritty silt lies barren on the leas, 255
And hunks of chalk by black chelyders bored:
No other field, they say, such victual makes
And winding lairs, and harbourage for snakes.
The soil that breathes thin mist and flitting haze,
And quaffs the dew, and at its will repays, 260
Self-clad for ever in a robe of green,
Nor apt to dim the spade with salt gangrene—
There olives teem, and there the elm shall twine
A mealy soil (for this the plough's intent)
Is best for corn; from nowhere else shall come
Such laden waggons slowly crawling home:
Or where the grumbling swain hath clear'd the wood,
And idle copse, that hath for ages stood,
Then root and branch the old bird-castles fell,
Away they soar out of their nests pell-mell: 250
Anon, beneath the onset of the share,
Glossily breaks the maiden earth laid bare.
For hungry brash, and highlands, scarce afford
Low cassia and sweet rosemary for bees;
And gritty silt lies barren on the leas, 255
And hunks of chalk by black chelyders bored:
No other field, they say, such victual makes
And winding lairs, and harbourage for snakes.
The soil that breathes thin mist and flitting haze,
And quaffs the dew, and at its will repays, 260
Self-clad for ever in a robe of green,
Nor apt to dim the spade with salt gangrene—
There olives teem, and there the elm shall twine
