Springtime it was, always, for ever spring;
The gentle zephyrs with their breathing balm
Caressed the flowers that sprang without a seed;
Anon the earth untilled brought forth her fruits,
The unfallowed fields lay gold with heavy grain,
And streams of milk and springs of nectar flowed
And yellow honey dripped from boughs of green.

Ovid's Metamorphoses, "The Ages of Mankind"