« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, And over it a space of watery blue, Which the keen evening star is shining through.
ON THE SERCHIO.
Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream,
The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
Day had awakened all things that be,
And the milkmaid's song and mower's scythe,
All rose to do the task He set to each,
And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire; Melchior and Lionel were not among those; They from the throng of men had stepped aside, And made their home under the green hill side. It was that hill, whose intervening brow Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below, Like a wide lake of green fertility, With streams and fields and marshes bare, Divides from the far Apennines—which lie Islanded in the immeasurable air.
“ What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
“ Never mind,” said Lionel, “Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops ; and see ! The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night.List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic's long black hair! Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions.".
The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
In morning's smile its eddies coil,
The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine: Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean.
SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Art thou come and gone :
As the Earth when leaves are dead,
I am left lone, alone.
The swallow Summer comes again,
To fly with thee, false as thou.
Sunny leaves from any bough.
Lilies for a bridal bed,
Pansies let my flowers be:
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
THE serpent is shut out from paradise.
In which its heart-cure lies :