Sonnets 

 Glastonbury Galileo Stratford-on-Avon To a Daffodil The Appian Way From the Fields Vénus de Milo Fire 

 

 

   The Call of the Mountains 

 Under the shade of the Kursaal veranda Idly I follow the flight of the seagulls, Gleaming like snow when their wings catch the sunshine, While from the palm-house adjacent is wafted Music half drowned in a babel of voices, Fitting the mode of this temple of follies. 

 Far though the mountains, their influence, ever Changeful in temper, from sombre to smiling, Constant in wileful and mystic allurement, Rouses unrest and a strange fascination. 

 Limpid and blue are the waters of Leman Clear in the deepness, translucent and shining, Blue as the ether's ineffable azure, Bright in the glow of the midsummer sunshine. Cleaving the air with their palpitant pinions, Wheeling and drifting, the beautiful seagulls Fly with the grace of unconscious perfection, Crying exultant and wild in a chorus. 

 Are you not fit for the realm of immortals, To float on the winds of the gardens Elysian? Or must you hover a little while longer— Wandering souls in a state of probation— Half-way uplifted beyond our defilement, Half-way removed from the land of the blessed? 

 Far in the distance beyond the blue water, Rises the hoary old father of mountains, Rugged and scarred with antiquity's furrows, Crowned with the snows of a million winters. Low in the shade of his ponderous presence, Dappling the slopes, are the homesteads of peasants, Each with its cloud of blue vapour ascending: And sweetly the bells across the green pastures Answer each other with voices persistent, Telling the herdsman the tale of his charges. Grim is the smile of the white-headed mountain For toilers below in the slumbering valley, Grim is the glance with a touch of derision, Seeming to say to his towering brothers— Catogne and the broad-shouldered heights of the Midi, "Iguanodon,—Mastodon,—Man,—in their passing Serve but as signs on the path of 

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