Hear! for our ploughshare is sundering
The glebe-furrows of starry-eyed
Aphrodite, where Graces guide
Our feet drawing nigh to the shrine
At the navel of earth hollow-thundering,
Where for Emmenus’ heaven-blest line
And for Akragas’ city enfolden
By her river, and, more than all,
For Xenocrates, riseth the hall
Of a treasure-house song-upholden
In Apollo’s glen of the golden
Gifts gracing his temple-wall.