O SINGER of the field and fold,
Theocritus! Pan’s pipe was thine,—
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!
Thou sang’st the simple feasts of old,—
The beechen bowl made glad with wine…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem