fenocchio

[…] Since buried she lay in a deep bed of Oysters, He’d live on “Fenocchi,” and die in his Cloisters! […]

But at all times the place is worth a visit to those who can admire flat scenery, and the artist will delight in the Cuyp-like effects of the oxen and horses and groups of pilgrims (for some are here always) seen against the delicate aerial mountain distances; and in the beautiful colouring of the plain, pink with asphodel in spring, or golden with fenocchio.

Most of his ‘town poetry’ was written in the village of Twickenham where, in between fits of composition, he was out in his garden looking to see how his broccoli were springing up, or if the ‘fenocchio’ was sprouting.