PLEASANT it is to lie amid the grass Under these shady locusts, half the day, Watching the ships reflected on the Bay, Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass: To see the happy-hearted martins pass, Brushing the dew-drops from the lilac spray: Or else to hang enamored o'er some lay Of fairy regions: or to muse, alas! On Dante, exiled, journeying outworn; On patient Milton's sorrowfulest eyes Shut from the splendors of the Night and Morn; To think that now, beneath the Italian skies, In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave, Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave. |