We are preparing to leave Cannes, and, as I write these lines, Frank silently lays a sheet of paper by my side. And I see—a Sonnet.
The Olive-Tree.
That dusky tree grows in a noted place—
A garden on the rocky mountain's side,
O'erlooking (in the evening of its pride)
The doomèd city of the chosen race.
There, as the swathing evening mists efface
Temple and fane, in sunset glory dyed,
And round the city walls the shadows glide,
Beneath the dappled gloom our hearts may trace