Can see—from here—the curling, ivory tips
That mark the sunlit dancing crests. And there,
From that old wall, the campanula blows—
As blue as Saxon eyes ’mid Saxon hair;
And there the grape all dusty purple grows.
These colors change, and fade, and disappear—
These last! (They say the primrose once was here!)
If I could stand an æon from to-day,
Here on the Punta Tragara, I know—
There where the white beach rims the circling bay—