The Cloister Garden at Certosa
It is a place monastic, set above
The city’s pride and pleasuring below;
The benediction of the sky breathes love
Over the olive trees and vines a-row.
The old gray walls are delicate to prayer
And silence; in the corridors dim-lit
Lurks many a painting, many a fresco rare
Done by some brother for the joy of it.
Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees,
Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets;
And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these,
The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats.
By a sun-dial in the center, rests
One brown-robed Father; and his lips recite
Some holy word; little he heeds the jests
Of those who make the world their chief delight.
While Florence, far below, from dreamy towers
Throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours.
Richard Burton