Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees, Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets; And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these, The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats. By a sun-dial in the center, rests One brown-robed Father; and his lips recite Some holy word; little he heeds the jests Of those who make the world their chief delight. While Florence, far below, from dreamy towers Throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours. RICHARD BURTON A GARDEN IN VENICE There is a garden in a vineyard set Beneath the spell of Adriatic skies; A lovely place of dreams and ecstasies, Of color tangled in a verdant net, The shimmer of the low lagoon whose fret Washes the garden's length, and rose that vies With rose, pomegranate and tall flowers that rise Above their fellows in one glory met. And there I think in the still summer night, When all the world is sleeping save the moon And the blest nightingale who shuns the noon, The closed flowers open out of sheer delight And the white lilies bow their slender stalks, For thro' them, 'neath the vines Madonna walks. DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY IN A GARDEN OF GRANADA The city rumour rises all the day Across the potted plants along the wall; The sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway, Tossing the dust and shadows in a squall. The sun is old and weary--weary here Upon the ageing roofs and miradors, The broken terraces and basins drear Where each old bell its ancient echoes pours. Ringing--what memories to ring--to those That linger here--the lizard and the cat, That haunt these solitudes in state morose Through the long day their silent habitat. Untroubled,--save when in the moonlight steals Some voice in song across the lower wall, And sudden magic each old rafter feels, The while the echoes round it rise and fall. For as the wail of love or sorrow rings Along the night soft steps are on the stair And pathway; in the broken window wings Are stirring, and white arms are lolling there. And that old rose tree lifts its head anew, And there is perfume o'er the hills afar, From where Alhambra's crescent cleaves the blue To where agleam Genil and Darro are. O Voice!--what is thy necromantic word That all Granada waits adown the years? Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?-- The cry of love amid the cry of tears?-- THOMAS WALSH AMIEL'S GARDEN