TO him no more an inward hate Shall speak, nor aught but beauty sing, Who walks within this Garden late And hears the fountain murmuring. A vestige of some other day Once lived, but dim-remembered now, Goes in the moon's familiar way Beneath the stately ilex-bough. The parterre—I but half forget— The Tuscan melancholy night— Too faintly I regain them, yet Too keenly to have lost them quite. Was I the Other of some song That many a year hath left the lips Of her who walks alone along The water where the Triton dips? And she—how her rispetti claim The sad, bewildered heart of me That ever almost-saith her name, Yet loseth it continually! Slow moving down the marble stair, Or leaned on sculptured balustrade, Her face is shadowed by her hair, Her arms are buried in its shade. Oh, would she lift that face, or free Those hidden hands, I know that soon My faint, old faded Italy Again might blossom to the moon! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO AN INTRA-MURAL RAT by MARIANNE MOORE DEDICATION IN THESE DAY by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE YOUNG WARRIOR by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: WILLIAM AND EMILY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |