Yes, marble realms, that, clear and high,
So float in the purple-azure sky,
We all have deemed them, o'er and o'er,
Miraculous isles of madrepore;
Nor marvel made that hither floods
Bore wonderful forms of hero-gods.
Oh, can you see, as spirit sees,
Yon silvery sheen of olive-trees?
To me a sound of murmuring doves
Comes wandering up from olive-groves,
And lingers near me, while I dwell
On yonder fair field of asphodel,
Half-lost in sultry songs of bees,
As, touching my chaliced anemones,
I prank their leaves with dusty sheen
To show where the golden bees have been.
On granite wall I paint the June
With emerald grape and wild festoon,—
Its chestnut-trees with open palms
Beseeching the sun for daily alms,—
In sloping valley, veiled with vines,
A violet path beneath the pines,—