Their taper-blossoms opulently lit
As girandoles that smoulder silently
Blue dust of incense; kohl-eyed evening
Sponges the face with dripping fragrances.
The vines and olives terraced on the hills
Melt on the dean horizon blurringly,
Where clouds descend in deluge, liquid-gold.
The flies fling flashes on cerulean meres
Where steely bream and roach with rosy fins
Goggle amongst the shrubberies of cress