Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 20 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, 25 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, 30 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, 35 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, 40 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. 45 Thou art the type of those meek charities Which make up half the nobleness of life, Those cheap delights the wise Pluck from the dusty wayside of earth's strife: Words of frank cheer, glances of friendly eyes, 50 Love's smallest coin, which yet to some may give The morsel that may keep alive A starving heart, and teach it to behold Some glimpse of God where all before was cold. Thy winged seeds, whereof the winds take care, 55 Are like the words of poet and of sage Which through the free heaven fare, And, now unheeded, in another age Take root, and to the gladdened future bear That witness which the present would not heed, 60 Bringing forth many a thought and deed, And, planted safely in the eternal sky, Bloom into stars which earth is guided by. Full of deep love thou art, yet not more full Than all thy common brethren of the ground, 65 Wherein, were we not dull, Some words of highest wisdom might be found; Yet earnest faith from day to day may cull Some syllables, which, rightly joined, can make A spell to soothe life's bitterest ache, 70 And ope Heaven's portals, which are near us still, Yea, nearer ever than the gates of Ill.