The clustering vines spring up through the clear air;
They grow twice over; once, high up and green,
And once deep down in the blue lake, between
The purple mountains, — both alike so fair,
One scarce can tell the sunshine from the glare.
Here, the light ripples through a leafy screen,
There, it flows on all golden and serene,
In both the dark-eyed children stand and stare;
While up and down their weary parents pace
Those stony ways, with long, deep baskets slung
Over their shoulders; yet with easy grace
They bear their burdens, whether old or young;
For here they play at work — in many a place
They work at . play — for those, no song be sung.