 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
CLXXXVII. AMONGST THE APENNINES.
Bride of the Morning! Valley warm and low:Thou precious gem of all the Apennine
Decked with the glory of some costly shrine,
Grace of a gorgeous dome: what verse may flow
So deftly as thy murmuring stream doth go,
Singing with tender strain to oak and pine;
Or yonder maiden's song whose fingers twine
Thread from a distaff where smooth sward doth grow,
Tending her flock that specks the shadowy dell?
Well might some world-worn wanderer pause and say,
Listing the wind and brooklet fall and swell,—
A pensive pilgrim through life's troubled day,—
Here let me with sweet Contemplation dwell
Until these mortal spoils shall fall away.
Near Nuocera, July 1868.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |