Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain’s brow,
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters—not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,
Whose kindly whisper floats o’er thee and thine—
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman’s breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;