The Consolation of Philosophy

What is it tempers cunningly
The placid hours of spring,
So that it blossoms with the rose
For earth's engarlanding:
Who loads the year's maturer prime
With clustered grapes in autumn time:

All this he knew—thus ever strove
Deep Nature's lore to guess.
Now, bereft of reason's light, he lies,
And bonds his neck oppress:
While by the heavy load constrained,
His eyes to this dull earth are chained.