30
ROME. 1870.
WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF THE ENTRANCE OF THE ITALIAN TROOPS INTO ROME.
There is a picture I remember well,
A fresco, fading in my Southern home,
A woman sleeping on the burning sand,
While baleful sunset vapours fill the land,
A type of thee, O Rome!
A fresco, fading in my Southern home,
A woman sleeping on the burning sand,
While baleful sunset vapours fill the land,
A type of thee, O Rome!
The slant sun searches for her cheek, and warms
Its golden brown to amber, till the bee,
Confused by sweetness, sucks it as a flower.
No queen, who dreams within her palace bower,
Is throned more royally.
Its golden brown to amber, till the bee,
Confused by sweetness, sucks it as a flower.
No queen, who dreams within her palace bower,
Is throned more royally.
Above, the blue, far-off, mysterious sky,
O'ercanopies her grave, majestic head,
O'ercanopies her grave, majestic head,
