The whole white world is ours, 
and the world, purple with rose-bays, 
bays, bush on bush, 
group, thicket, hedge and tree, 
dark islands in a sea 
of gray-green olive or wild white-olive, 
cut with the sudden cypress shafts, 
in clusters, two or three, 
or with one slender, single cypress-tree. 

Slid from the hill, 
as crumbling snow-peaks slide, 
citron on citron fill 
the valley, and delight 
waits till our spirits tire 
of forest, grove and bush 
and purple flower of the laurel-tree. 

Yet not one wearies, 
joined is each to each 
in happiness complete 
with bush and flower: 
ours is the wind-breath 
at the hot noon-hour, 
ours is the bee's soft belly 
and the blush of the rose-petal, 
lifted, of the flower.