O, patient creature with a peasant face,
Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains,
And standing humbly in the dusty lanes!
There seems a mystery in thy work and place,
Which crowns thee with significance and grace;
Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins?
What royal nursling comes at night and drains
Unscorned the food of the plebeian race?
By day I mark no living thing which rests
On thee save butterflies of gold and brown,
Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet,
And crowding eagerly sink fluttering down
And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat,
Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.