Classic Poem

A small plot or two of turf,
Never to be cropped by goat or heifer,
On the ledge of a precipice;
A bunch of slender flowers
Hanging from a chink;
And one luxuriant plot
Of bright blue monkshood,
Lodged like a little garden
Amid the stone-work of an Italian villa,
Were the sole marks of vegetation,
Except a few distorted pine trees on one of the summits,
Which reminded us of watchmen
On the look-out.