Classic Poem

Silvery the olives on Ravello's steeps,
—Terraced the verdure of her nurtured hills;
Far, far below the blue Salerno sweeps,
—And on the shore her emerald largesse spills.
Lost in the haze of melting hills and skies
Sad Pæstum's plain in shadowy distance lies.

How the Spring flings her tribute to the breeze
—Through every slit in these long, winding walls!
Shunning the screen of flowery tapestries,
—The slim gray lizard, turquoise-vested, crawls—
Blind worshipper of the unconscious sun,
His pagan shrine, his splendid eidolon.

Here Scala lifts upon her furrowed breast
—Twin cities of the living and the dead,
Where toil the quick and where the buried rest,
—With Roman tombs low vaulted overhead:
In these strange dwellings life must surely seem
To hold the secret of its final dream.

The nectarine, peach and almond trees in flower,
—Play on the hues from deep to palest rose.
Shy druid birches guard a secret bower
—Where many a home-like English blossom blows;
With daisy, primrose, and narcissus shine
The lavish stars of Wordsworth's celandine.

On rocky, wave-girt slopes, where buds the vine,
—Golden and green the trellised orchards grow.
Beyond the beach's pale, receding line
—Roam dusky herds of sullen buffalo.
The distant Apennines' dark ranges wear
Halos of snow and amethystine air.

Can this be Italy, or but a dream
—Emerging from the broken waves of sleep?
Since even the rudest works of peasants seem
—Some spell of ancient miracles to keep:
As when against old Barbarossa's power
The Romans threw the grim rock of this tower.

More exquisite than our imagining,
—In silent hours how often shall arise—
From the dim waters of that mystic spring
—Where the soul keeps her anchored memories—
This world of beauty, color, and perfume;
Hoary with age, yet of unaging bloom.