HKB
Nathless then also time it is to strip Acorns from oaks, and berries from the bay, Olives, and bleeding myrtles, then to set Snares for the crane, and meshes for the stag, And hunt the long-eared hares, then pierce the doe With whirl of hempen-thonged Balearic sling, While snow lies deep, and streams are drifting ice. What need to tell of autumn's storms and stars, And wherefore men must watch, when now the day Grows shorter, and more soft the summer's heat? When Spring the rain-bringer comes rushing down, Or when the beards of harvest on the plain Bristle already, and the milky corn On its green stalk is swelling? Many a time, When now the farmer to his yellow fields The reaping-hind came bringing, even in act To lop the brittle barley stems, have I Seen all the windy legions clash in war Together, as to rend up far and wide The heavy corn-crop from its lowest roots, And toss it skyward: so might winter's flaw, Dark-eddying, whirl light stalks and flying straws. Oft too comes looming vast along the sky A march of waters; mustering from above, The clouds roll up the tempest, heaped and grim With angry showers: down falls the height of heaven, And with a great rain floods the smiling crops, The oxen's labour: now the dikes fill fast, And the void river-beds swell thunderously, And all the panting firths of Ocean boil. The Sire himself in midnight of the clouds Wields with red hand the levin; through all her bulk Earth at the hurly quakes; the beasts are fled, And mortal hearts of every kindred sunk In cowering terror; he with flaming brand Athos, or Rhodope, or Ceraunian crags Precipitates: then doubly raves the South With shower on blinding shower, and woods and coasts Wail fitfully beneath the mighty blast. This fearing, mark the months and Signs of heaven, Whither retires him Saturn's icy star, And through what heavenly cycles wandereth The glowing orb Cyllenian. Before all Worship the Gods, and to great Ceres pay Her yearly dues upon the happy sward With sacrifice, anigh the utmost end Of winter, and when Spring begins to smile. Then lambs are fat, and wines are mellowest then; Then sleep is sweet, and dark the shadows fall Upon the mountains. Let your rustic youth To Ceres do obeisance, one and all; And for her pleasure thou mix honeycombs With milk and the ripe wine-god; thrice for luck Around the young corn let the victim go, And all the choir, a joyful company, Attend it, and with shouts bid Ceres come To be their house-mate; and let no man dare Put sickle to the ripened ears until, With woven oak his temples chapleted, He foot the rugged dance and chant the lay.