Classic Poem

I close my eyes, and from the hills of home
View Italy again: the fallen frieze;
The templed vales and haunts of Dryades;
The vast campagna and the looming dome;
The wraith that lingers o'er a vanished Rome, —
All rise in glamour flushed with memories;
And from the Ischian Isles the Neriad-seas
Call to my youth across the syren foam.

The air is tremulous with a spirit-tone
Of by-gone lyres. I hear the phantom throng:
The rhythmic thunder of the Mantuan's lines;
Lorn Petrarch sighing in the Appenines;
And as he treads Ravenna's pave, alone,
Again the Tuscan chants his deathless song.