Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

Already the shrill lark is out of sight, Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,— p. 36Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight Than could be tested in a crucible!— But the air freshens, let us go, why soon The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!

p. 36

p. 37ROSA MYSTICA

p. 37

p. 39REQUIESCAT

p. 39

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

Tread

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

Avignon.

Avignon

p. 40SONNET ON APPROACHING ITALY

p. 40

I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned, Italia, my Italia, at thy name:  And when from out the mountain’s heart I came And saw the land for which my life had yearned, I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:  And musing on the marvel of thy fame I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair, And in the orchards every twining spray Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam: But when I knew that far away at Rome In evil bonds a second Peter 

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