ITALY

There is a country in my mind,

Lovelier than a poet blind

Could dream of, who had never known

This world of drought and dust and stone

In all its ugliness: a place

Full of an all but human grace;

Whose dells retain the printed form

Of heavenly sleep, and seem yet warm

From some pure body newly risen;

Where matter is no more a prison,

But freedom for the soul to know

Its native beauty. For things glow

There with an inward truth and are

All fire and colour like a star.

And in that land are domes and towers

That hang as light and bright as flowers

Upon the sky, and seem a birth

Rather of air than solid earth.

Sometimes I dream that walking there

In the green shade, all unaware

At a new turn of the golden glade,

I shall see her, and as though afraid

Shall halt a moment and almost fall

For passing faintness, like a man

Who feels the sudden spirit of Pan

Brimming his narrow soul with all

The illimitable world. And she,

Turning her head, will let me see

The first sharp dawn of her surprise

Turning to welcome in her eyes.

And I shall come and take my lover

And looking on her re-discover

All her beauty:— her dark hair

And the little ears beneath it, where

Roses of lucid shadow sleep;

Her brooding mouth, and in the deep

Wells of her eyes reflected stars...

Oh, the imperishable things

That hands and lips as well as words

Shall speak! Oh movement of white wings,

Oh wheeling galaxies of birds...!