Below, against the dull esparto grass,

The almonds glimmer white.

Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,

Invite my fancy, and I wander through

The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns

The world’s first sailors knew.

Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze

Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;

Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,

Venice salutes my eyes.