Aret ager, vitio moriens sitit aris herba, Liber pampineas invidit collibus umbras: Phyllidis adventu nostrae nemus omne virebit, Iuppiter et laeto descendet plurimus imbri.
The field is parched; the grass is athirst, dying in the tainted air; Bacchus has grudged the hills the shade of his vines: but at the coming of my Phyllis all the woodland will be green, and Jupiter, in his fullness, shall descend in gladsome showers.
final_alignments\Virgil_Eclogues.json