Egle
Grey in the winter morning, o'ergrown with laurel and ivy,
Sadly the ruined tombs stand by the Appian Way.
High in the clear blue spaces of Heaven, yet dripping with raindrops,
Luminous snow-white clouds blot out the sun and the day.
Egle, upturning her face in the cool, calm air of the morning
Sweet with the promise of spring, gazes intent on the sky —
Gazes; and over those ancient tombs the light of her forehead,
More than the beams of the sun, brightens the clouds that pass by.
Sadly the ruined tombs stand by the Appian Way.
High in the clear blue spaces of Heaven, yet dripping with raindrops,
Luminous snow-white clouds blot out the sun and the day.
Egle, upturning her face in the cool, calm air of the morning
Sweet with the promise of spring, gazes intent on the sky —
Gazes; and over those ancient tombs the light of her forehead,
More than the beams of the sun, brightens the clouds that pass by.
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