SUR LA TERRASSE DES AYGALADES.
From this high terrace where the roses
Mount up as if to tempt the hand,
Three things the horizon-bound discloses—
The road, the town, the sea-line grand.
The sea says:—Fear me, when wrath urges,
Yawns terrible for all my deep,
And those who brave my foam-fringed surges
Down, down amidst my sea-weeds sleep.
The town says:—Wouldst thou comfort borrow
From me so full of noise and care?
My days are given to toil and sorrow,
And all my nights want fresher air.
The road says:—Lo, my winding traces
Lead to the climates of the snow,
Inhabited by divers races,—
But Death is in the winds that blow.
Now, life is here, in this sweet shadow;
What balm sheds Zephyr as he flies!
And oh! what flowers on hill and meadow
As thick as stars in summer skies!
