ON THE SHORE


There is a shore along which the world flowers, one long sweet garden
strip, between the olive-grey hills and the very blue sea. Like nosegays
in the garden the towns are set, blooming in their many colours, linked
by the white road running above blue water. For vagabonds in April the
poppies riot scarlet by the white road's edge, and the last of the
hawthorn lingers like melting snow, and over the garden walls the purple
veils of the wistaria drift like twilight mist. Over the garden walls,
too, the sweetness of the orange and lemon blossom floats into the road,
and the frangipani sends delicate wafts down, and the red and white roses
toss and hang as if they had brimmed over from sheer exuberance. If a
door in one of the walls chance to stand ajar, vagabonds on the road may
look in and see an Eden, unimaginably sweet, aflame with oleanders and
pomegranate blossom, and white like snow with tall lilies.

The road itself is good, bordered on one side by the garden sweetness
and the blossoms that foam like wave-crests over the walls, on the other
breaking down to a steep hill-slope where all the wild flowers of spring
star the grassy terraces, singing at the twisted feet of the olives that
give them grey shadow. So the hillside runs steeply down to where at its
rocky base the blue waves murmur. All down the coast the road turns and
twists and climbs and dips, above little lovely bays and through little
gay towns, caught between mountains and blue water. For those who want a
bed, the hush of the moonlit olives that shadow the terraced slopes gives
sweeter sleep than the inns of the towns, and the crooning of the quiet
sea is a gentler lullaby than the noises of streets, and the sweetness of
the myrtle blossom is better to breathe than the warm air of rooms. To