The soil is inexhaustibly fertile, and its fertility expresses itself in the most inveterate beauty.

Such colors and varieties of flowers exist nowhere else, and they continue all the year round.

Climbing vines storm the walls, and toss their green ladders all over it, for beauty to walk up and down.
Huge jars, standing on the verandas, emit volcanoes of lovely blossoms; and vases swung from the roof drip and overflow with others, as if water had turned to flowers.

In the garden, which extends over several acres at the front of the house, and, as it were, makes it an island in a gorgeous sea of petals, there are roses, almonds, oranges, vines, pomegranates, and a hundred rivals whose names are unknown to the present historian, marching joyfully and triumphantly through the seasons, as the symphony moves through changes along its central theme.
Everything that is not an animal or a mineral seems to be a flower.
There are too many flowers,--or, rather, there is not enough of anything else.

The faculty of appreciation wearies, and at last ceases to take note.