Tuscan Olives
(seven rispetti)
i.
The colour of the olives who shall say?
In winter on the yellow earth they're blue,
A wind can change the green to white or grey.
But they are olives still in every hue;
But they are olives always, green or white.
As love is love in torment or delight;
But they are olives, ruffled or at rest,
As love is always love in tears or jest.
ii.
We walked along the terraced olive-yard.
And talked together till we lost the way;
We met a peasant, bent with age and hard.
Bruising the grape-skins in a vase of clay;
Bruising the grape-skins for the second wine,
We did not drink, and left him. Love of mine;
Bruising the grapes already bruised enough:
He had his meagre wine, and we our love.
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