For if we wander out in early morn，
No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east to meet the smiling day：
No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay，
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn，
Roses， and pinks， and violets， to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these
And I shall ever bless my destiny，
That in a time when under pleasant trees
Pan is no longer sought， I feel a free，
A leafy luxury， seeing I could please，
With these poor offerings， a man like thee.