| |
| THIS is the loggia Browning loved, | |
| High on the flank of the friendly town; | |
| These are the hills that his keen eye roved, | |
| The green like a cataract leaping down | |
| To the plain that his pen gave new renown. | 5 |
| |
| There to the West what a range of blue!— | |
| The very background Titian drew | |
| To his peerless Loves! O tranquil scene! | |
| Who than thy poet fondlier knew | |
| The peaks and the shore and the lore between? | 10 |
| |
| See! yonder’s his Venice—the valiant Spire, | |
| Highest one of the perfect three, | |
| Guarding the others: the Palace choir, | |
| The Temple flashing with opal fire— | |
| Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea. | 15 |
| |
| Yesterday he was part of it all— | |
| Sat here, discerning cloud from snow | |
| In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, | |
| Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred row | |
| Meets in a leafy bacchanal. | 20 |
| |
| Listen a moment—how oft did he!— | |
| To the bells from Fontalto’s distant tower | |
| Leading the evening in … ah, me! | |
| Here breathes the whole soul of Italy | |
| As one rose breathes with the breath of the bower. | 25 |
| |
| Sighs were meant for an hour like this | |
| When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. | |
| Do you wonder the poet’s heart should miss | |
| This touch of rapture in Nature’s kiss | |
| And dream of Asolo ever again? | 30 |
| |
| “Part of it yesterday,” we moan? | |
| Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. | |
| What most we love we are that alone. | |
| His body lies under the Minster stone, | |
| But the love of the warm heart lingers here. | 35 |
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