Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- Nor toward the sunset let thy vineyards slope,
- Nor midst the vines plant hazel; neither take
- The topmost shoots for cuttings, nor from the top
- Of the supporting tree your suckers tear;
- So deep their love of earth; nor wound the plants
- With blunted blade; nor truncheons intersperse
- Of the wild olive: for oft from careless swains
- A spark hath fallen, that, 'neath the unctuous rind
- Hid thief-like first, now grips the tough tree-bole,
- And mounting to the leaves on high, sends forth
- A roar to heaven, then coursing through the boughs
- And airy summits reigns victoriously,
- Wraps all the grove in robes of fire, and gross
- With pitch-black vapour heaves the murky reek
- Skyward, but chiefly if a storm has swooped
- Down on the forest, and a driving wind
- Rolls up the conflagration. When 'tis so,
- Their root-force fails them, nor, when lopped away,
- Can they recover, and from the earth beneath
- Spring to like verdure; thus alone survives
- The bare wild olive with its bitter leaves.