IV

     Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: 
     Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: 
     Big of heart we laboured at storing mighty yields,
     Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! 
     Hand-like rushed the vintage; we strung the bellied skins
     Plump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose: 
     Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins;
     Gentle beasties through pushed a cold long nose. 
     God! of whom music
     And song and blood are pure,
     The day is never darkened
     That had thee here obscure.

     V

     Foot to fire in snowtime we trimmed the slender shaft: 
     Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teeth
     Grin against his will, trapped by masterstrokes of craft;
     Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! 
     Safe the tender lambs tugged the teats, and winter sped
     Whirled before the crocus, the year’s new gold. 
     Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead
     Reddened through his feathers for our dear fold. 
     God! of whom music
     And song and blood are pure,
     The day is never darkened
     That had thee here obscure.

     VI

     Tales we drank of giants at war with Gods above: 
     Rocks were they to look on, and earth climbed air! 
     Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love
     Ease because the creature was all too fair. 
     Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good,
     Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. 
     He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood
     Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapped mast. 
     God! of whom music
     And song and blood are pure,
     The day is never darkened
     That had thee here obscure.

     VII

     Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known,
     Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame. 
     Ere the string was tightened we heard the mellow tone,
     After he had taught how the sweet sounds came
     Stretched about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you see
     Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. 
     So began contention to give delight and be
     Excellent in things aimed to make life kind. 
     God! of whom music
     And song and blood are pure,
     The day is never darkened
     That had thee here obscure.

     VIII

     You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats,
     You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! 
     Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! 
     Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! 
     You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays,
     You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: 
     He has been our fellow, the morning of our days! 
     Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. 
     God! of whom music
     And song and blood are pure,
     The day is never darkened
     That had thee here obscure.