The various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring,
The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence;
For there is none to covet: all are full.
The lion, and the libbard, and the bear,
Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon
Together, or all gambol in the shade
Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.
Antipathies are none. No foe to man
Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,