I.

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain)In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.

Hark, those two in the hazel coppice---A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say,---The happier they!

Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the bean-flowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June!

II.

What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurled, In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, And come again to the land of lands)---In a sea-side house to the farther South, Where the baked cicala dies of drouth, And one sharp tree---'tis a cypress---stands, By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, My sentinel to guard the sands To the water's edge. For, what expands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break?

While, in the house, for ever crumbles Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.

A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, And says there's news to-day---the king Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:

---She hopes they have not caught the felons.

Italy, my Italy!

Queen Mary's saying serves for me---(When fortune's malice Lost her---Calais)---Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, ``Italy.''

Such lovers old are I and she:

So it always was, so shall ever be!