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"But now we see none here--" He broke off.
"Ah, there he gets at the pang of it! Other poets have wasted pity on the dead-and-gone maids, but his is for the fields they leave desolate." This puzzled Corona.

But the poem had touched her somehow, and she kept repeating snatches of it to herself as she rambled off in search of more birds' nests.

Left to himself, Brother Copas pulled out book and pencil again, and began botching at the last lines of the _Pervigilium Veneris_-- "Her favour it was filled the sail of the Trojan for Latium bound; Her favour that won her AEneas a bride on Laurentian ground; And anon from the cloister inveigled the Vestal, the Virgin, to Mars, As her wit by the wild Sabine rape recreated her Rome for its wars With the Ramnes, Quirites, together ancestrally proud as they drew From Romulus down to our Ceesar--last, best of that bone and that thew .-- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!" Brother Copas paused to trim his pencil, which was blunt.

His gaze wandered across the water-meadows and overtook Corona, who was wading deep in buttercups.
"Proserpine on the fields of Enna!" he muttered, and resumed-- "Love planteth a field; it conceives to the passion, the pang, of his joy.
In a field was Dione in labour delivered of Cupid the Boy: And the field in its fostering lap from her travail receiv'd him: he drew Mother's milk from the delicate kisses of flowers; and he prospered and grew .-- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!" "Why do I translate this stuff?
Why, but for the sake of a child who will never see it--who if she read it, would not understand a word ?" "Lo! Behold ye the bulls, with how lordly a flank they besprawl on the broom! -- Yet obey the uxorious yoke and are tamed by Dione her doom.
Or behear ye the sheep, to the husbanding rams how they bleat to the shade! Or behear ye the birds, at the Goddess' command how they sing unafraid!-- Be it harsh as the swannery's clamour that shatters the hush of the lake; Be it dulcet as where Philomela holds darkling the poplar awake, So melting her soul into music, you'd vow 'twas her passion, her own, She chanteth--her sister forgot, with the Daulian crime long-agone.
Hush! Hark! Draw around to the circle.

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