I
On windy days, the Grass Garden
whistles, hums, shouts.
Its colours are light and shade;
it smells of sky.

II

The Palm House, afloat
in late November,
is closed for renovation.

Between its ribs,
Paxton's tracery
holds the low clouds.

III

Along the wide, blond paths of France,
We tourists hungrily advance
To fountains, green with tritons, where
Fish leap like epigrams in air.

IV

Vita, on the stone bench,
shuts her eyes.
...