FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

· 288

PLEASANT it was, when woods were But the dark foliage interweaves

In one unbroken roof of leaves
Underneath whose sloping eaves,
The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound ;

B

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