see, from this counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song:
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care and scorn, abide;
Small friendship for the lordly throng;...
|
Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover; |
What shall we do now, Mary being dead, As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet, |
The handful here, that once was Mary’s earth, “Not here! not here!” to every mourner’s heart |
This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day, |
Into the noiseless country Annie went, And oft at midnight when my strength is spent |
Ermine or blazonry, he knew them not, In peace, in war, a worker day and night, |
Finding francesca full of tears, I said, |
My christmas gifts were few: to one And to another—she who sent |
quale allodetta che in aere si spazia |