For now the star of day with transient light
Rolls o’er our heads and joys in longer night;
When from the worm the forest boles are sound,
[82]Trees bud no more, but earthward cast around
Their withering foliage, then remember well
The timely labour, and thy timber fell.
Hew from the wood [83]a mortar of three feet;
Three cubits may the pestle’s length complete:
Seven feet the fittest axle-tree extends;
If eight the log, the eighth a mallet lends.