And swaying gently; in the air

Of myrtle floats the sweet aroma;

Palms line the paths, and bays; with their

Proud crowns the mighty cedars boldly

The heavens brush; agleam with golden

Fruit are the orange groves; a pond

Mirrors it all.... The hills beyond,

The vales and copses by the blaze of

Spring are revived; the wind of May

Sweeps o'er the spellbound leas in play

In song melodious and gay

A nightingale its sweet voice raises;

Great fountains upward, to the sky,

Send sprays of gems, then down, enwreathing

The statues that, alive and breathing,

Around them stand. If Phidias' eye

On these could rest, he, though by Pallas

And by Apollo taught, would, jealous,

His magic point and chisel drop....

In swift and fiery arcs that shatter

'Gainst marble barriers which stop

Their headlong downward plunge and scatter

The tiny motes of pearly dust,

The waterfalls cascade, while just

A few steps farther out, in nooks

By thick trees shadowed, rippling brooks

Plash sleepily.... The vivid greenness

Is by the whiteness here and there

Flecked of the lightly-built pavilions

That offer shelter from the glare....

And roses, roses everywhere!...

But comfortless is our Ludmila,

What round her lies she does not see;

The magic garden does not thrill her