Classic Poem

I do recall some sad days spent
By borders of the Orient,
'Twould make a tale. It matters not.
I sought the loneliest seas; I sought
The solitude of ruins, and forgot
Mine own life and my littleness
Before this fair land's mute distress.

 Slow sailing through the reedy isles,
Some sunny summer yesterdays,
I watched the storied yellow sail,
And lifted prow of steely mail;
'Tis all that's left Torcello now,—
A pirate's yellow sail, a prow.

 I touch'd Torcello. Once on land,
I took a sea-shell in my hand,
And blew like any trumpeter.
I felt the fig leaves lift and stir
On trees that reach from ruin'd wall
Above my head,—but that was all.
Back from the farther island shore
Came echoes trooping—nothing more.

 By cattle paths grass-grown and worn,
Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn
By time and battle, lone I walk'd.
A bent old beggar, white as one
For better fruitage blossoming,
Came on. And as he came he talk'd
Unto himself; for there were none
In all his island, old and dim,
To answer back or question him.
I turn'd, retraced my steps once more.
The hot miasma steam'd and rose
In deadly vapor from the reeds
That grew from out the shallow shore,
Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds,
And Neptune shapes his horn and blows.

 Yet here stood Adria once, and here
Attila came with sword and flame,
And set his throne of hollow'd stone
In her high mart. And it remains
Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears
Of mute petition fell, the rains
Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone
There lifts this massive empty throne.

 I climb'd and sat that throne of stone
To contemplate; to dream, to reign—
Ay, reign above myself; to call
The people of the past again
Before me as I sat alone
In all my kingdom. There were kine
That browsed along the reedy brine,
And now and then a tusky boar
Would shake the high reeds of the shore,
A bird blow by,—but that was all.

 I watch'd the lonesome sea-gull pass.
I did remember and forget,—
The past roll'd by; I lived alone.
I sat the shapely, chisell'd stone
That stands in tall, sweet grasses set;
Ay, girdled deep in long, strong grass,
And green alfalfa. Very fair
The heavens were, and still and blue,
For Nature knows no changes there.
The Alps of Venice, far away,
Like some half-risen late moon lay.

 How sweet the grasses at my feet!
The smell of clover over-sweet.
I heard the hum of bees. The bloom
Of clover-tops and cherry-trees
Was being rifled by the bees,
And these were building in a tomb.
The fair alfalfa—such as has
Usurp'd the Occident, and grows
With all the sweetness of the rose
On Sacramento's sundown hills—
Is there, and that dead island fills
With fragrance. Yet the smell of death
Comes riding in on every breath.

 That sad, sweet fragrance. It had sense,
And sound, and voice. It was a part
Of that which had possess'd my heart,
And would not of my will go hence,
'Twas Autumn's breath; sad as the kiss
Of some sweet worshipp'd woman is.

 Some snails had climb'd the throne and writ
Their silver monograms on it
In unknown tongues. I sat thereon,
I dream'd until the day was gone;
I blew again my pearly shell,—
Blew long and strong, and loud and well;
I puff'd my cheeks, I blew as when
Horn'd satyrs piped and danced as men.

 Some mouse-brown cows that fed within
Look'd up. A cowherd rose hard by,
My single subject, clad in skin,
Nor yet half-clad. I caught his eye,—
He stared at me, then turn'd and fled.
He frighten'd fled, and as he ran,
Like wild beast from the face of man
Back o'er his shoulder threw his head.
He stopp'd, and then this subject true,
Mine only one in all the isle,
Turn'd round, and, with a fawning smile,
Came back and ask'd me for a soul .