The south wind bears in at the lattice
 The breath of Italia's flowers,
Recalling the days when together
 We roamed through the Doria's bowers.

The days when we strayed by the Tiber,
 And dreamed in the forum of Rome:
Do you think of them now, darling Ada,
 Away in our dear Western home?

Do you think of your ramble with Lina
 To fabled Egeria's cave
Or our tribute of tears when we gathered
 A blossom from poor Shelley's grave?

Do you think of our walks by the Arno,
 When the picture of sunset above
Was painted below in the waters,
 As love is reflected by love;

Of our day in Fiesole's gardens,
 The stream singing on through the shade,
The gray Tuscan wall where we rested,
 And the old Gothic church where we prayed?

We stretch out our hands to the future,
 And fly from the joys of the past;
And of all the bright dreams Hope has woven,
 The sweetest is always the last.

But the memory of beautiful hours
 Should stay when their moments have fled,
And minister still, like the odors
 Of flowers, when their petals are dead: