That night we spent between the purple heaven And purple water: I think Marian slept; But I, as a dog a-watch for his master’s foot, Who cannot sleep or eat before he hears, I sate upon the deck and watched all night, And listened through the stars for Italy. Those marriage-bells I spoke of, sounded far, As some child’s go-cart in the street beneath To a dying man who will not pass the day, And knows it, holding by a hand he loves. I, too, sate quiet, satisfied with death, Sate silent: I could hear my own soul speak, And had my friend,—for Nature comes sometimes And says, ‘I am ambassador for God.’ I felt the wind soft from the land of souls; The old miraculous mountains heaved in sight, One straining past another along the shore, The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of seas And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing peak They stood: I watched beyond that Tyrian belt Of intense sea betwixt them and the ship, Down all their sides the misty olive-woods Dissolving in the weak congenial moon, And still disclosing some brown convent-tower That seems as if it grew from some brown rock,— Or many a little lighted village, dropt Like a fallen star, upon so high a point, You wonder what can keep it in its place From sliding headlong with the waterfalls Which drop and powder all the myrtle-groves With spray of silver. Thus my Italy Was stealing on us. Genoa broke with day; The Doria’s long pale palace striking out, From green hills in advance of the white town, A marble finger dominant to ships, Seen glimmering through the uncertain grey of dawn. But then I did not think, ‘my Italy,’ I thought, ‘my father!’ O my father’s house, Without his presence!—Places are too much Or else too little, for immortal man; Too little, when love’s May o’ergrows the ground,— Too much, when that luxuriant wealth of green Is rustling to our ankles in dead leaves. ’Tis only good to be, or here or there, Because we had a dream on such a stone, Or this or that,—but, once beings wholly waked, And come back to the stone without the dream, We trip upon’t,—alas! and hurt ourselves; Or else it falls on us and grinds us flat, The heaviest grave-stone on this burying earth. —But while I stood and mused, a quiet touch Fell light upon my arm, and, turning round, A pair of moistened eyes convicted mine. ‘What, Marian! is the babe astir so soon?’ ‘He sleeps,’ she answered; ‘I have crept up thrice, And seen you sitting, standing, still at watch. I thought it did you good till now, but now’ ... ‘But now,’ I said, ‘you leave the child alone.’ ‘And _you’re_ alone,’ she answered,—and she looked As if I, too, were something. Sweet the help Of one we have helped! Thanks, Marian, for that help.