“Look! There’s their olive-orchard, intermixt With rows of vines and almond-trees betwixt. The beauty of it is, that vineyard hath For every day in all the year a path! There’s ne’er another such the beauty is; And in each path are just so many trees.” “O heavens! How many hands at harvest-tide So many trees must need!” young Vincen cried. “Nay: for ’tis almost Hallowmas, you know, When all the girls come flocking in from Baux, And, singing, heap with olives green and dun The sheets and sacks, and call it only fun.” The sun was sinking, as old Ambroi said; On high were little clouds a-flush with red; Sideways upon their yokèd cattle rode The labourers slowly home, each with his goad Erect. Night darkened on the distant moor; ’Twas supper-time, the day of toil was o’er. “And here we are!” the boy cried. “I can see The straw-heaped threshing-floor, so hasten we!” “But stay!” the other. “Now, as I’m alive, The Lotus Farm’s the place for sheep to thrive,-- The pine-woods all the summer, and the sweep Of the great plain in winter. Lucky sheep! “And look at the great trees that shade the dwelling, And look at that delicious stream forth welling Inside the vivary! And mark the bees! Autumn makes havoc in their colonies; But every year, when comes the bright May weather, Yon lotus-grove a hundred swarms will gather.” “And one thing more” cried Vincen, eagerly, “The very best of all, it seems to me,-- I mean the maiden, father, who dwells here. Thou canst not have forgotten how, last year, She bade us bring her olive-baskets two, And fit her little one with handles new.” So saying, they drew the farm-house door a-nigh, And, in the dewy twilight, saw thereby The maid herself. Distaff in hand she stood, Watching her silk-worms at their leafy food. Then master Ambroi let his osiers fall, And sang out cheerily, “Good-even, all!” “Father, the same to you!” the damsel said. “I had come out my distaff-point to thread, It grows so dark. Whence come you now, I pray? From Valabrègo?” Ambroi answered, “Yea. I said, when the fast-coming dark I saw, ‘We’ll sleep at Lotus Farm upon the straw.’” Whereat, with no more words, father and son Hard by upon a roller sat them down, And fell to their own work right busily. A half-made cradle chanced the same to be. Fast through the nimble fingers of the two The supple osier bent and crossed and flew. Certes, our Vincen was a comely lad. A bright face and a manly form he had, Albeit that summer he was bare sixteen. Swart were his cheeks; but the dark soil, I ween, Bears the fine wheat, and black grapes make the wine That sets our feet a-dance, our eyes a-shine.