A ragged clump of peppers
Hung against a casement door,
And the shadow of a lantern
Etched upon a cobbled floor.

Thatched roofs aslant on careless line,
In indolence replete,
Dreaming to the music
Of the fountain at their feet,

Whose tiny jet of water
Is reflected in its play
By the many mullioned windows
In a crooked, crazy way.

Whispers born of breezes
Lend cadence to the air
And speak of peace and beauty
And forgetfullness of care.

And the swinging of the lantern
Makes its shadow undulate
As tho' a hand in welcome
Beckoned by the postern gate.

And those who come are happy
And bide awhile to weave
A dream of sweet contentment
In this spot of Make Believe.