A Harvest Poem Found in Virgil’s Georgic I

Harvest

In early spring the icy drip

Melts down the mountains,

To loosen the crumbling clod

Under the deep press of the plough

Behind the groaning ox,

Fulfilling the farmer’s prayer

With boundless harvest-crops.

Cornfields smile

At the plump wheat ear

Mingling with the grape.

The olive springs

From richest rain;

The earth is green

With tender growth

Of trees – a forest

Fills the plain.

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