Classic Poem

I rode one evening with Count Maddalo
Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow
Of Adria towards Venice — a bare strand
Of hillocks, heaped from ever shifting sand,
Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds
Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds,
Is this — an uninhabitable sea-side
Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,
Abandons; and no other objects breaks
The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes
Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes
A narrow space of level sand thereon,
Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down.
This ride was my delight.
I love all waste
And solitary places, where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be —
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More barren than its billows — and yet more
Than all, with a remembered friend I love
To ride as then I rode. For the wind drove
The living spray along the sunny air
Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare,
Stripped to their depths by the awakening north;
And from the waves sound, like delight, broke forth,
Harmonizing with solitude, and sent
Into our hearts airial merriment!
So, as we rode, we talked, and the swift thought,
Winging itself with laughter, lingered not,
But flew from brain the brain (such glee was ours)
Charged with light memories of remembered hours,
None slow enough for sadness — till we came
Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.
This day had been cheerful, but cold, and now
The sun was sinking, and the wind also.
Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be
Talk interrupted with such raillery
That mocks itself because it cannot scorn
The thoughts it would extinguish — 'twas forlorn
But pleasing, such as once (so poets tell)
The devils held within the dales of Hell
Concerning God, free-will, and destiny!
Of all that Earth has been, or yet may be,
All that vain men imagine or believe,
Or hope can paint, or suffering may achieve,
We descanted, and I (for ever, still,
Is it not wise to make the best of ill?) —
Argued against despondency, but pride
Made my companion take the darker side.
The sense that he was greater than his kind
Had struck, methinks, his eagle-spirit blind
By gazing on its own exceeding light.
Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight,
Over the horizon of the mountains. Oh
How beautiful is sunset, when the glow
Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee,
Thou paradise of exiles, Italy —
Thy mountains, seas and vineyards, and the towers
Of cities they encircle! It was ours
To stand on thee beholding it; and then,
Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men
Were waiting for us with the gondola.
As those who pause on some delightful way
Though bent on pilgrimage, we stood
Looking upon the evening and the flood
Which lay between the city and the shore,
Paved with the image of the sky.
From the slow-wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words, " in vain",
Seared on the heart, I go. 'Twill soon be past,
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, oh thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth — who knowst not what was given
In that devotedness — the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid! Farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, beloved one, on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness, and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was formed to be
So richly blest! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept even as part of our sweet air along —
To listen silently! With thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days,
This had been joy enough! And, hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soared, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams — the fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name
(As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hushed) awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me. I leave it with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound —
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell!
Say proudly yet, " 'Twas hers who loved me well!"