Borne on the waves from India’s coral strand.
The farmer’s boy, long since amid the woods,
Has plucked the hazel and the chestnut brown,
And sharp-ribbed walnut, for his winter store,
Leaving the staining butternut untouched,
For the hoar-frost to peel its ragged shell.
The sheep go wandering o’er the barren plains
In search of welcome food, and where the scythe
Between the pointed stones has passed along,
Crop closer than the crooked blade of man