Fresh from the Sabines, The Beautiful Hills, The wind bloweth. Down o'er the slopes, Where the olives whiten As though the feet Of the wind were snow-clad: Out o'er the plain Where a paradise Of wild blooms waveth, And where, in the sunswept Leagues of azure, A thousand larks are As a thousand founts 'Mid the perfect joy of The depth of heaven. Swift o'er the heights, And over the valleys Where the grey oxen sleepily stand, Down, like a wild hawk swooping earthward, Over the winding reaches of Tiber, Bloweth the wind! How the wind bloweth, Here on the steeps of Ancient Fidenae, Where no voice soundeth Now, save the shepherd Calling his sheep; And where none wander But only the cloud-shadows, Vague ghosts of the past. Sweet and fresh from the Sabines, Now as of yore, When Etruscan maidens Laughed as their lovers Mocked the damsels Of alien Rome, Sweet with the same young breath o' the world Bloweth the wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND: 2 by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SONNET: 106 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE WIDOW; SAPPHICS by ROBERT SOUTHEY THE WHITE BIRDS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS RODGERSON'S DOUG by WILLIAM AITKEN TREES BE COMPANY by WILLIAM BARNES SHEKLA: A VISION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE QUIETNESS by ANNE MILLAY BREMER THE BOHEMIANS OF BOSTON AND THEIR WAYS; A MEMORY OF THE JACOBEAN CRAZE by FRANK GELETT BURGESS |