I call you to a city where
The most urbane are most bucolic.
'Twill charm your poet's eyes to find
Good husbandmen in brokers burly;--
Their stock is ever on their mind;
To water it they rise up early.

Things you have sung, but ah, not seen--
Things proper to the age of Saturn--
Shall greet you here; for we have been
Wrought quaintly, on the Arcadian pattern.
Your poet's lips will break in song
For joy, to see at last appearing
The bulls and bears, a peaceful throng,
While a lamb leads them--to the shearing!

And metamorphoses, of course,
You'll mark in plenty, à la Proteus:
A bear become a little horse--
Presumably from too much throat-use!
A thousandfold must go untold;
But, should you miss your farm-yard sunny,
And miss your ducks and drakes, behold
We'll make you ducks and drakes--of money!

Greengrocers here are fairly read.
And should you set your heart upon them,
We lack not beets--but some are dead,
While others have policemen on them.
And be the dewfall dear to you,