Good seems the dark steer in the noonday sun,
The ploughman’s keel that turns black waves of loam,
The laughing girls, the fluting shepherd boys,
And beautiful the song of many birds;
Good seem these golden bees whose busy wings
With wavering music drone and die away,—
The orchard odours and the seas of bloom;
And good the valleys where the green leaves breathe,
The hills where all the patient pines look down;
Good seem the lowland poplars bathed in light,