The whole white world is ours, and
the world, purple with rose-bays, bays, bush on
bush, group, thicket, hedge and tree, 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, lifted,
of the flower.