“The road weaves upward accompanied by a drum and a flute,
Round and round the bends, where the scent is more and more honeyed.
Plaited beehives, their straw shines like brass,
Sunflowers in rows, thyme.
And there, four turrets: facing East, West, North and South.
Where you enter the gate it’s as if they were waiting for you.
Complete silence in a rose garden,
Around it, an expanse of green hills,
Of blue-green, up to the very clouds.”
from ‘The Accuser’ by Czeslaw Milosz
It’s almost like a formula for a perfume, this magical bit of poetry. I’d love to smell it.