For August, be your dwelling thirty towers
Within an Alpine valley mountainous
Where never the sea-wind may vex your house
But clear life separate, like a star, be yours
There horses shall wait saddled at all hours
That ye may mount at morn or at eve;
On each hand either ridge ye shall perceive
A mile apart, which soon a good beast scours
So alway, drawing homewards, ye shall tread
Your valley parted by a rivulet
Which day and night shall flow sedate and smooth
There all through noon ye may possess the shade
And there your open purses shall entreat
The best of Tuscan cheer to feed your youth
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