On a limestone laced hillside,

Under a sun burnished Umbrian sky;

Like resting peasants, the olives thrive.

Descendents of arboreal ancients,

Forty years yet still in their youth;

Stunted, gnarled, abundant with fruit.

Oh, what brines and savory oils

Come of thy verdant harvest.

Look down upon your sisters there

Spread out along the fence rows;

Another twisted, twining ancient grows.

Sun-sweetened grapes gathered on the vine,

Soon put to foot to make a drink devine.

Lo, from the garden of the gods,

There's no more truer pair than these

Bestowed upon mankind.