The God of the Gardens, IV

Enter. Fresh coated have my pillars been,
And in my arbor, from the sunshine's glare,
The shade is softest. Balm perfumes the air,
And April decks the ground with blossomy sheen.

By turns the seasons crown me: olives green,
Ripe grapes, great golden ears, and flower-cups fair;
While goats their creamy milk still kindly spare,
Which curded in the vat each morn is seen.

The master honors me for service done;
Nor thrush nor thief despoils his vines, and none
Is better guarded in the Roman land.

Sons fair, wife virtuous, the man at home
Each eve from market jingles in his hand
The shining deniers he has brought from Rome.