Chapter 37 No.37

[A]What time the day removes the orient vault,

The rustic peasant leaves his humble home,

And when the sun with fiercer tangent strikes,

Fatigued and parched, he sits him in the shade;

Then plods again with hard, laborious toil,

Until black night the hemisphere enshrouds.

And then he rests. But I must ever chafe

At morning, noo