Frowns, the sole troubled spirit of the scene—
And even him the distance makes serene.
All this I see from my still summer home,
A bower where nought but peace and beauty come.
Geraniums and roses round me bloom—
From orange-groves, amid whose verdant gloom
Gold fruit and silver flowers together shine,
Come orient odors. A thick blossoming vine
Shadows the terrace where, even as I write,
The wind snows down the olive-blossoms white.