And that they drop upon me, now and then, For token or for solace, some small weed Least odorous of the growths of paradise, To spare such pungent scents as kill with joy. My old Assunta, too, was dead, was dead— O land of all men’s past! for me alone, It would not mix its tenses. I was past, It seemed, like others,—only not in heaven. And, many a Tuscan eve, I wandered down The cypress alley, like a restless ghost That tries its feeble ineffectual breath Upon its own charred funeral-brands put out Too soon,—where, black and stiff, stood up the trees Against the broad vermilion of the skies. Such skies!—all clouds abolished in a sweep Of God’s skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts and men, As down I went, saluting on the bridge The hem of such, before ’twas caught away Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Underneath, The river, just escaping from the weight Of that intolerable glory, ran In acquiescent shadow murmurously: And up, beside it, streamed the festa-folk With fellow-murmurs from their feet and fans, (With _issimo_ and _ino_ and sweet poise Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous talk) Returning from the grand-duke’s dairy-farm Before the trees grew dangerous at eight, (For, ‘trust no tree by moonlight,’ Tuscans say) To eat their ice at Doni’s tenderly,— Each lovely lady close to a cavalier Who holds her dear fan while she feeds her smile On meditative spoonfuls of vanille, He breathing hot protesting vows of love, Enough to thaw her cream, and scorch his beard. ’Twas little matter. I could pass them by Indifferently, not fearing to be known. No danger of being wrecked upon a friend, And forced to take an iceberg for an isle! The very English, here, must wait to learn To hang the cobweb of their gossip out And catch a fly. I’m happy. It’s sublime, This perfect solitude of foreign lands! To be, as if you had not been till then, And were then, simply that you chose to be: To spring up, not be brought forth from the ground, Like grasshoppers at Athens, and skip thrice Before a woman makes a pounce on you And plants you in her hair!—possess, yourself, A new world all alive with creatures new, New sun, new moon, new flowers, new people—ah, And be possessed by none of them! no right In one, to call your name, enquire your where, Or what you think of Mister Some-one’s book, Or Mister Other’s marriage, or decease, Or how’s the headache which you had last week, Or why you look so pale still, since it’s gone? —Such most surprising riddance of one’s life Comes next one’s death; it’s disembodiment Without the pang. I marvel, people choose To stand stock-still like fakirs, till the moss Grows on them, and they cry out, self-admired, ‘How verdant and how virtuous!’ Well, I’m glad: