Drawing the pungent fragrance that they have,
And grey-green ivies, form each its own zone
In one plot—many gardens out of one.
For I have marked what wonders may be wrought
By gardeners mixing seeds and roots with thought.—
In shadows craggy Tarentum’s tow’rs throw,
An old Cilician, cast up, who knows how,
By war, or vagrant mood, had grant, or none—
Some waste acres—to live or starve upon.
Though black Galeso waters a wide space