The morning finds the self-sequestered man Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. Whether inclement seasons recommend His warm but simple home, where he enjoys, With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Well chosen, and not sullenly perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment digested well. Or if the garden with its many cares, All well repaid, demand him, he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, Oft loitering lazily if not o’erseen, Or misapplying his unskilful strength. Nor does he govern only or direct, But much performs himself; no works indeed That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, Servile employ—but such as may amuse, Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees That meet, no barren interval between, With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge, No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, None but his steel approach them. What is weak, Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft And succulent that feeds its giant growth, But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left That may disgrace his art, or disappoint Large expectation, he disposes neat At measured distances, that air and sun Admitted freely may afford their aid, And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, And hence even Winter fills his withered hand With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, Fair recompense of labour well bestowed And wise precaution, which a clime so rude Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods Discovering much the temper of her sire. For oft, as if in her the stream of mild Maternal nature had reversed its course, She brings her infants forth with many smiles, But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies Her want of care, screening and keeping warm The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild, The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev’ry beam, And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.