dark islands in a sea

of grey-green olive or wild white-olive,

cut with the sudden cypress shafts,

in clusters, two or three,

or with one slender, single cypress-tree.

Slid from the hill,

as crumbling snow-peaks slide,

citron on citron fill

the valley, and delight

waits till our spirits tire

of forest, grove and bush

and purple flower of the laurel-tree.

Yet not one wearies,

joined is each to each

in happiness complete

with bush and flower:

ours is the wind-breath

at the hot noon-hour,

ours is the bee's soft belly

and the blush of the rose-petal,

 Prev. P 55/71 next