Thoughts At Ajaccio

KIND Earth, upon whose mother breast The fruitful trees in time of spring, Put forth their endless blossoming From North to South, from East to West, Whose sweet deep-furrowed soil is blest With striving seeds and budding flowers, And all the potent toil of hours, From sunrise until even’s rest—

Stretch forth thy leafy arms at dawn, And touch me, compass me around, Fill me with scent of upturned ground, Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn. The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn, Poor though they must be while I live, For in my hour of death I give My heart, that one rose may be born!