In Galilee

Not fancies of the soft Ionian clime,
Nor thoughts on Plato's page, that greener grow
Than do the plane-trees by the pleasant flow
Of the Ilissus in the summer time,
Came to the Galilean with sweet chime.
Blanch'd in the blaze of Syrian summers, lo!
He gazes on Gennesareth, aglow
Within its golden mountain cup sublime.
The sunset comes. Behind the Roman tower
The dark boat's circled topsails shift and swell,
Quench'd is the flickering furnace of the dust,
The mountains branded as with red gold rust,
The tunic'd boatmen dip their nets an hour
And the sun goeth down on Jezreel.