Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN EVENING IN TUSCANY, by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Look! The sun sets. Now's the rarest Last Line: To a silver-centred pause! Alternate Author Name(s): Meredith, Owen; Lytton, 1st Earl Of; Lytton, Robert Subject(s): Florence, Italy; Tuscany, Italy | ||||||||
LOOK! the sun sets. Now's the rarest Hour of all the blessed day. (Just the hour, love, you look fairest!) Even the snails are out to play. Cool the breeze mounts, like this Chianti Which I drain down to the sun. -- There! shut up that old green Dante, -- Turn the page, where we begun, At the last news of Ulysses, -- A grand image, fit to close Just such grand gold eves as this is, Full of splendor and repose! So loop up those long bright tresses, -- Only, one or two must fall Down your warm neck Evening kisses Through the soft curls spite of all. Ah, but rest in your still place there! Stir not -- turn not! the warm pleasure Coming, going in your face there, And the rose (no richer treasure) In your bosom, like my love there, Just half secret and half seen; And the soft light from above there Streaming o'er your where you lean, With your fair head in the shadow Of that grass-hat's glancing brim, Like a daisy in a meadow Which its own deep fringes dim. O you laugh, -- you cry "What folly!" Yet you'd scarcely have me wise, If I judge right, judging wholly By the secret in your eyes. But look down now, o'er the city Sleeping soft among the hills, -- Our dear Florence! That great Pitti With its steady shadow fills Half the town up: Its unwinking Cold white windows, as they glare Down the long streets, set one thinking Of the old dukes who lived there; And one pictures those strange men so! -- Subtle brains, and iron thews! There, the gardens of Lorenzo, -- The long cypress avenues Creep up slow the stately hillside Where the merry loungers are. But far more I love this still side, -- The blue plain you see so far! Where the shore of bright white villas Leaves off faint: the purple breadths Of the olives and the willows: And the gold-rimmed mountain-widths: All transfused in slumbrous glory To one burning point -- the sun! But up here, -- slow, cold, and hoary Reach the olives, one by one: And the land looks fresh: the yellow Arbute-berries, here and there, Growing slowly ripe and mellow Through a flush of rosy hair. For the Tramontana last week Was about: 't is scarce three weeks Since the snow lay, one white vast streak, Upon those old purple peaks. So to-day among the grasses One may pick up tens and twelves Of young olives, as one passes, Blown about, and by themselves Blackening sullen-ripe. The corn too Grows each day from green to golden. The large-eyed wind-flowers forlorn too Blow among it, unbeholden: Some white, some crimson, others Purple blackening to the heart. From the deep wheat-sea, which smothers Their bright globes up, how they start! And the small wild pinks from tender Feather-grasses peep at us: While above them burns, on slender Stems, the red gladiolus: And the grapes are green: this season They 'll be round and sound and true, If no after-blight should seize on Those young bunches turning blue. O that night of purple weather! (Just before the moon had set) You remember how together We walked home? -- the grass was wet -- The long grass in the Podere -- With the balmy dew among it: And that nightingale -- the fairy Song he sung -- O how he sung it! And the fig-trees had grown heavy With the young figs white and woolly, And the fire-flies, bevy on bevy Of soft sparkles, pouring fully Their warm life through trance on trances Of thick citron-shades behind, Rose, like swarms of loving fancies Through some rich and pensive mind. So we reached the loggia. Leaning Faint, we sat there in the shade. Neither spoke. The night's deep meaning Filled the silence up unsaid. Hoarsely through the cypress alley A civetta out of tune Tried his voice by fits. The valley Lay all dark below the moon. Until into song you burst out, -- That old song I made for you When we found our rose, -- the first out Last sweet Springtime in the dew. Well! ...if things had gone less wildly -- Had I settled down before There, in England -- labored mildly -- And been patient -- and learned more Of how men should live in London -- Been less happy -- or more wise -- Left no great works tried, and undone -- Never looked in your soft eyes -- I...but what 's the use of thinking? There! our nightingale begins -- Now a rising note -- now sinking Back in little broken rings Of warm song that spread and eddy -- Now he picks up heart -- and draws His great music, slow and steady, To a silver-centred pause! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PAURA NON E NELLA CARITA by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE ON A SCENE IN TUSCANY by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES TO MY MUSE by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON TUSCAN CYPRESS: RISPETTO 1 by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON TUSCAN CYPRESS: RISPETTO 10 by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON TUSCAN CYPRESS: RISPETTO 11 by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON TUSCAN CYPRESS: RISPETTO 12 by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON TUSCAN CYPRESS: RISPETTO 13 by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON THE LAST WISH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AUX ITALIENS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE CHESSBOARD by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |
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