 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
102
Home from Italy
There are no snow-white oxen in the dales
To drag with rolling gait the narrow wain;
No cypress plumes the hill, and in the plain
I scent no vines, I hear no nightingales;
But the same rose, whose beauty there prevails,
Shuts her pink petals from the gentle rain;
The same swifts cry above the topmost vane,
And high in air the self-same buzzard sails.
To drag with rolling gait the narrow wain;
No cypress plumes the hill, and in the plain
I scent no vines, I hear no nightingales;
But the same rose, whose beauty there prevails,
Shuts her pink petals from the gentle rain;
The same swifts cry above the topmost vane,
And high in air the self-same buzzard sails.
Thro' silent sunburnt flats no Tiber streams,
No Amiata shines divinely blue,
No purple city dreams about its dome;
But Skiddaw lifts his bulk of changeful hue,
Thro' lush green meads the Greta sounds and gleams,
And one fair garden calls the wanderer home.
No Amiata shines divinely blue,
No purple city dreams about its dome;
But Skiddaw lifts his bulk of changeful hue,
Thro' lush green meads the Greta sounds and gleams,
And one fair garden calls the wanderer home.
| Poems at Home and Abroad | |