I.
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—-A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say,—- The happier they!
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,
And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the bean-flowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June!
II.
What I love best in all the
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,
In a gash of the wind-grieved
Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,
And come again to the land of lands)—-In a sea-side house to the farther South,
Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,
And one sharp tree—-'tis a cypress—-stands,
By the many hundred years red-rusted,
Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,
My sentinel to guard the
To the water's edge.
For, what
Before the house, but the great
Blue breadth of sea without a break?
While, in the house, for ever
Some fragment of the frescoed walls,
From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.
A girl bare-footed brings, and
Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,
And says there's news to-day—-the
Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,
Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:—-She hopes they have not caught the felons.
Italy, my Italy!
Queen Mary's saying serves for me—- (When fortune's malice Lost her—-Calais)—-Open my heart and you will
Graved inside of it, ``Italy.''Such lovers old are I and she:
So it always was, so shall ever be!
