“ ‘My palace in the living rock is made By nature’s hand: a spacious pleasing shade; Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade. My garden fill’d with fruits you may behold, And grapes in clusters, imitating gold; Some blushing bunches of a purple hue; And these, and those, are all reserved for you. Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand, Proud to be gather’d by so white a hand. Autumnal cornels later fruit provide, And plums, to tempt you, turn their glossy side: Not those of common kinds, but such alone As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown: Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food, Nor garden fruits, nor wildings of the wood; The laden boughs for you alone shall bear; And yours shall be the product of the year.