The almond trees of Tuscany in flower, Narcissus and the tulip growing wild; White oxen; and like a lily undefiled, Beyond the misty plain, the marble tower; The roses and the corn upon the hill, The Judas-tree against the solid blue; The fire-flies, and the downy owl’s too-whoo, Thy Aziola, Shelley, plaintive still.
The lisp of Baiæ’s phosphorescent foam; And Venice like a bubble made of dew, A shell transfigured with the rainbow’s hue; The Appian Way beneath a sullen sky, (The shepherd’s pipe is like a seagull’s cry) And in a silver rift, eternal Rome.
SEVILLE
The orange blossoms in the Alcazar, Where roses and syringas are in flower; The blinding glory of the morning hour; The eyes that gleam behind a twisted bar; The women on the balconies, – a smile; The barrel-organs, and the blazing heat; The awning hanging high across the street; A dark mantilla in a sombre aisle.
A fountain tinkling in a shady court; The gold arena of the bull-ring’s feast; The coloured crowd acclaiming perilous sport; The sudden silence when they hold their breath, While the torero gently plays with death, And flicks the horns of the tremendous beast.
GREECE
The Spring had scattered poppies on the land, The Spring was saying her secret to the breeze; In the translucent shallows of green seas, A fisherman, a trident in his hand, Was casting shining fishes to the sand, And wading in the water to his knees; And still I hear the crickets and the bees, The hidden hoofs, the ringing saraband.
I see the temples above the breaking foam, The pillars pink as dawn in the silver dust; The Parthenon at sunset large and dim, Smouldering against the purple mountain’s crust; And far away on the ocean’s blazing rim, The phantom ship that brought Ulysses home.
RUSSIA
What can the secret link between us be? Why does your song’s unresting ebb and flow Speak to me in a language that I know? Why does the burden of your mystery Come like the message of a friend to me? Why do I love your vasts of corn or snow, The tears and laughter of your sleepless woe, The murmur of your brown immensity?
I cannot say, I only know that when I hear your soldiers singing in the street, I know it is with you that I would dwell; And when I see your peasants reaping wheat, Your children playing on the road, your men At prayer before a shrine, I wish them well.
A JUNE NIGHT IN RUSSIA
A concert. Hark to the prelude’s opening bar! Played by the sheep bells tinkling on the hill; Dogs bark and frogs are croaking near the mill, The watchman’s rattle beats the time afar. Like water bubbling in a magic jar, The nightingale begins a liquid trill, Another answers; and the world’s so still, You’d think that you could hear that falling star.
I scarcely see for light the stars that swim Aloof in skies not dark but only dim. The women’s voices echo far away. And on the road two lovers sing a song: They sing the joy of love that lasts a day: The sorrow of love that lasts a whole life long.
HARVEST IN RUSSIA
The breeze has come at last. The day was long; And in the lustrous air the dark bats fly; And Hark! It is the reapers passing by, I hear the burden of their peaceful song. A voice intones; and swift the answering throng Take up the theme and build the harmony; The music swells and soars into the sky And dies away intense, and clear and strong.
Now through the trees the stately shapes I see Of women with the attributes of toil, Calm in their sacerdotal majesty; And backward, through the drifting mist of years, I see the festal rites that blessed the soil, As old as the first drop of mortal tears.
