Classic Poem

TO — — —

I N Italy how comes the spring?
I look across wide fields of snow
To naked woods, and long to know
How fair the shimmering mountains lie?
How warm above them bends the sky
Of Tuscany?
What word from Rome the swallows bring,
Swift sent to thee?
Here stirs no life of bud nor wing;
The trees by icy winds are torn;
And yet I dream how flowers are born
In Italy.

I see the far, fair city swim
Through mists of memory bright yet dim
Shining, even as it shone of old
Through Arno's haze of subtile gold,
By witchery
Of distance, light and evening spun.
Tall cypresses against the sun
Distinct I see,
Defiling darkly up the hill,
As when we wandered at our will
In Italy.