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With your

fair head in the shadow

Of that grass-hat's glancing brim, Like a daisy in a meadow

Which its own deep fringes dim.

O you laugh,—you cry

"What folly!"

Yet you'd scarcely have me wise,
If I judge right, judging wholly
By the secret in your eyes.

But look down now, o'er the city
Sleeping soft among the hills,-
Our dear Florence! That great Pitti
With its steady shadow fills

Half the town up: its unwinking
Cold white windows, as they glare
Down the long streets, set one thinking
Of the old dukes who lived there;

And one pictures those strange men so!—
Subtle brains, and iron thews!
There, the gardens of Lorenzo:-
The long cypress avenues

Creep up slow the stately hillside
Where the merry loungers are.
But far more I love this still side,-
The blue plain you see so far!

Where the shore of bright white villas
Leaves off faint: the purple breadths
Of the olives and the willows:

And the gold-rimmed mountain widths.

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All transfused in slumbrous glory,
To one burning point-the sun.
But up here, slow, cold, and hoary
Reach the olives, one by one:

And the land looks fresh: the yellow
Arbute-berries, here and there,
Growing slowly ripe and mellow
Through a flush of rosy hair.

For the Tramontana last week

Was about; 't is scarce three weeks Since the snow lay, one white vast streak, Upon those old purple peaks

So to-day among the grasses

One may pick up tens and twelves

Of young olives, as one passes,

Blown about, and by themselves

Blackening sullen-ripe. The corn too
Grows each day from green to golden.
The large-eyed wind-flowers forlorn too
Blow among it, unbeholden:

Some of white, some crimson, others
Purple blackening to the heart.
From the deep wheat-sea which smothers
Their bright globes up, how they start!

And the small wild pinks from tender
Feather-grasses peep at us.

While above them burns, on slender

Stems, the red gladiolus.

And the grapes are green: this season
They 'll be round and sound and true,
If no after-blight should seize on
Those young bunches turning blue.

O that night of purple weather!

(Just before the moon had set)

You remember how together

We walked home? the grass was wet.

The long grass in the Poderé

With the balmy dew among it:

And that nightingale-the fairy

Song he sung-O how he sung it!

And the fig-trees had grown heavy,
With the young figs white and woolly

And the fire-flies, bevy on bevy

Of soft sparkles, pouring fully

Their warm life through trance on trances
Of thick citron-shades behind,
Rose, like swarms of loving fancies

Through some rich and pensive mind.

So we reached the loggia. Leaning
Faint, we sat there in the shade.
Neither spoke. The night's deep meaning
Filled the silence up unsaid.

Hoarsely through the cypress alley

A civetta out of tune

Tried his voice by fits. The valley

Lay all dark below the moon.

Until into song you burst out,—
That old song I made for you
When we found our rose, the first out-
Last sweet Springtime in the dew.

Well! . . . if things had gone less wildly-
Had I settled down before
There, in England, labored mildly-

And been patient—and learned more

Of how men should live in London-
Been less happy-or more wise-
Left no great works tried, and undone-
Never looked in your soft eyes-

I ... but what's the use of thinking?
There! our nightingale begins-
Now a rising note-now sinking
Back in little broken rings

Of warm songs that spread and eddy—

Now he picks up heart-and draws

His great music, slow and steady,

To a silver-centred pause!

Jorge Mar Donald

LONGING.

My heart is full of inarticulate pain,
And beats laborious. Cold, ungenial looks
Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain,

Wise in success, well read in feeble books,
No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear;
'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth!

Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come;
Make me an atmosphere sweet with your youth;

Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room;
Speak not a word, for see, my spirit lies
Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes!

O all wide places, far from feverous towns!

Great shining seas! pine forests! mountains wild! Rock-bosomed shores! rough heaths! and sheep-cropt downs!

Vast pallid clouds! blue spaces undefiled!

Room! give me room! give loneliness and air!

Free things and plenteous in your regions fair.

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