I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky, Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses Bordering the channel of the milky-way. Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico Murmur to me but in the poet's song. I did believe (what have I not believed?) Weary with age, but unopprest by pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration .. reasoning As if the sight were unimpaired by death, Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, And the sun cheered corruption! Over all The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EARLY RISING by JOHN GODFREY SAXE AH, BIND MY HANDS by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE SINGERS OF DELLA ROBBIA by ALFRED BARRETT SELF-COMMUNING by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 35 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS by ROBERT BURNS |