Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass— Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways— Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap—and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God’s book. NOTES AND QUESTIONS For Biography, see page 55.