Classic Poem

Within this far Etruscan clime,
By vine-clad slopes and olive plains,
And round these walls still left by Time,
The bound'ries of his old domains: —

Here at the dreamer's golden goal,
Whose dome o'er winding Arno drops,
Where old Romance still breathes its soul
Through Poesy's enchanted stops: —

Where Art still holds her ancient state
(What though her banner now is furled),
And keeps within her guarded gate
The household treasures of the world: —

What joy amid all this to find
One single bird, or flower, or leaf,
Earth's any simplest show designed
For pleasure, what though frail or brief —

If but that leaf, or bird, or flower
Were wafted from the western strand,
To breathe into one happy hour
The freshness of my native land!

That joy is mine — the bird I hear,
The flower is blooming near me now,
The leaf that some great bard might wear
In triumph on his sacred brow.

For lady, while thy voice and face
Make thee the Tuscan's loveliest guest,
Within this old romantic space
Breathes all the freshness of the West