XXIX

The pattern of the earth, so wonderful,

Is, more than myrtle, very dear to me.

Across the avenue of limes I see

A little mist by ghosts made magical,

Tossing across the hills, more beautiful

Than the deep eyes of amber women, free

Of shame and of disdain, on some far sea

Swept by trade-winds the sun makes lyrical.

There is no air the mind may not recall,

Blown from the violet-beds of Greece; and all

The moons who drop their shattered petals here

Live from the days which hid Semiramis.

Breezes upon my lips are subtly dear,

Because they bear the burden of her kiss.