It is not the great ones, but the simple peasant,
Whom the earth knows as children complacent
The earth does not like blood nor filth
From tyrants and their impure hands comes nothing but blood and filth.
The loving plowmen open nature’s breast with such beautiful colours,
Make the streams run through the green meadows,
In variegated enamel, through the wild flowers;
By order and by compass the azure gardens
Show to the laughing sky their measured earths,
The mown flowerbeds, and the straight paths
Ruler in hands, a straight line re-casts;
They are painters, embroiderers, and then their large carpets blacken
With grapes and turn yellow with spices from heaven;
The shady forests, their more open dwellings,