The Storm - Alcæus of Mytilene

Now here, now there, the wild waves sweep,

Whilst we, betwixt them o'er the deep,

In shatter'd tempest-beaten bark,

With laboring ropes are onward driven,

The Harvesters - Aleardo Aleardi

What time in summer, sad with so much light,

The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields;

The harvesters, as famine urges them,

Draw hitherward in thousands, and they wear

The look of those that dolorously go