Like thoughtful cattle on the yellow sands reclined, They turn their eyes towards the horizon of the sea,
Their feet towards each other stretched, their hands entwined,
They tell of gentle yearning, frigid misery.
 
A few, with heart-confiding faith of old, imbued
Amid the darkling grove, where silver streamlets flow,
Unfold to each their loves of tender infanthood,
And carve the verdant stems of the vine-kissed portico.
 
And others like unto nuns with footsteps slow and grave,
Ascend the hallowed rocks of ancient mystic lore,
Where long ago—St. Anthony, like a surging wave,
The naked purpled breasts of his temptation saw.
 
And still some more, that 'neath the shimmering masses stroll,
Among the silent chasm of some pagan ............