Winter fighting March—bridled Galeso’s flow,
He plucked Iris tresses, in mock distress
At missing Zephyrs, Summer’s tardiness!
Not his hives to fail in queen bees; no swarm
Of his was ever known to come to harm;
Earliest the honey from his combs pressed;
For who judged like him which flow’rs bees love best?
Master the old man in tree-craft as well;
His, choicest stone-pines, limes; for he could tell
By instinct where to plant; and as for yield