Then through the graveyard's straight and narrow portal
Our journey led. How dark the place! How strange
Its steep, black mountain wall—as if the immortal
Spirit could thus be stayed its skyward range!
Beyond, the smoky olives clothed the mountains
In green that grew through many a moonlit night.
Below, down cleft and chasm leapt snowy fountains;
Above, the sky was warm, and blue, and bright;
When, sudden, from out a fair and smiling heaven
Burst forth the rain, quick as a trumpet-blare;
Yet still the Italian sun each drop did leaven,
And turned the rain to diamonds in the air.
So past the day in shade, and shower, and sun,
Like thine own moods, thou sweet and changeful maiden!
Great Heaven! deal kindly with this gentle one,
Nor let her soul too heavily be laden.
IMPROMPTUS
I—TO F. F. C. ON THE PANSY, HER CLASS FLOWER
This is the flower of thought;
Take it, thou empress of a land
Of true hearts, from a loyal subject's hand;
And with it naught,
O, naught beneath life's ever-brightening dome
Of sad remembrance! May it bring
Dreams of joy only, and of happy days
Backward and still to come;
