Page:Bijou Almanacks.pdf/9



Oh, born beneath those summer hours, That turn our common earth to flowers, Where wind the myrtles round the hill, And sunshine dances on the rill, Till life is loveliness, and teems With all the spirit's fairest dreams: Young painter, this inspired thy hand, Thy own rose-bound Italian land, And made thy soft and flowing line Of human beauty half divine. Thy colours caught the heaven above, Till painting turned to life and love.