Or where green slopes, through tamarisk and pine,
Seaward decline—
Thyme and the lavender,
Where honey-bees make stir,
And the green dragon-flies with silver whirr
Loot the last rosemaries—
The morning-glory, rosy as her name,
The poppies’ leaping flame
Along the kindled vines,
Down barren banks the vetches spilt like lees,