Since Nature lurks within the soil. And yet Even these, should one engraft them, or transplant To well-drilled trenches, will anon put of Their woodland temper, and, by frequent tilth, To whatso craft thou summon them, make speed To follow. So likewise will the barren shaft That from the stock-root issueth, if it be Set out with clear space amid open fields: Now the tree-mother's towering leaves and boughs Darken, despoil of increase as it grows, And blast it in the bearing. Lastly, that Which from shed seed ariseth, upward wins But slowly, yielding promise of its shade To late-born generations; apples wane Forgetful of their former juice, the grape Bears sorry clusters, for the birds a prey. Soothly on all must toil be spent, and all Trained to the trench and at great cost subdued. But reared from truncheons olives answer best, As vines from layers, and from the solid wood The Paphian myrtles; while from suckers spring Both hardy hazels and huge ash, the tree That rims with shade the brows of Hercules, And acorns dear to the Chaonian sire: So springs the towering palm too, and the fir Destined to spy the dangers of the deep. But the rough arbutus with walnut-fruit Is grafted; so have barren planes ere now Stout apples borne, with chestnut-flower the beech, The mountain-ash with pear-bloom whitened o'er, And swine crunched acorns 'neath the boughs of elms. Nor is the method of inserting eyes And grafting one: for where the buds push forth Amidst the bark, and burst the membranes thin, Even on the knot a narrow rift is made, Wherein from some strange tree a germ they pen, And to the moist rind bid it cleave and grow. Or, otherwise, in knotless trunks is hewn A breach, and deep into the solid grain A path with wedges cloven; then fruitful slips Are set herein, and- no long time- behold! To heaven upshot with teeming boughs, the tree Strange leaves admires and fruitage not its own. Nor of one kind alone are sturdy elms, Willow and lotus, nor the cypress-trees Of Ida; nor of self-same fashion spring Fat olives, orchades, and radii And bitter-berried pausians, no, nor yet Apples and the forests of Alcinous; Nor from like cuttings are Crustumian pears And Syrian, and the heavy hand-fillers. Not the same vintage from our trees hangs down, Which Lesbos from Methymna's tendril plucks. Vines Thasian are there, Mareotids white, These apt for richer soils, for lighter those: Psithian for raisin-wine more useful, thin Lageos, that one day will try the feet And tie the tongue: purples and early-ripes, And how, O Rhaetian, shall I hymn thy praise? Yet cope not therefore with Falernian bins. Vines Aminaean too, best-bodied wine, To which the Tmolian bows him, ay, and king Phanaeus too, and, lesser of that name, Argitis, wherewith not a grape can vie For gush of wine-juice or for length of years. Nor thee must I pass over, vine of Rhodes, Welcomed by gods and at the second board, Nor thee, Bumastus, with plump clusters swollen.