For there no vessel with vermilion Prore, Or bark of traffic, glides from shore to shore; The rugged race of savages, unskill'd The seas to traverse, or the ships to build, Gaze on the coast, nor cultivate the soil, Unlearn'd in all the industrious art of toil, Yet here all produces and all plants abound, Sprung from the fruitful genius of the ground; Fields waving high with heavy crops are seen, And vines that flourish in eternal green, Refreshing meads along the murmuring main, And fountains streaming down the fruitful plain.
"The Odyssey of Homer"
Homer, translated by Alexander Pope