Grape vines abound on hillsides near,

While ancient trees shed treasured crop;

And all around the earth must give

Account of nourishment received.

 

In Tuscan land, as always known,

The press of roots in rocky soil

Force ever deep to ferret forth

The form of growth and life itself.

 

While in a corner, near the house,

A tender care has nurtured there

A portion of another realm,

Of upsprung life from soil bare.

 

A pleasure to the eye, and more

Than beauty is a patch of bloom,

As Batya’s garden shines beyond

The confines where the flowers grow.

****