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(From Beppo)
I LIKE on autumn evenings to ride out | |
| Without being forced to bid my groom be sure | |
| My cloak is round his middle strapped about, | |
| Because the skies are not the most secure; | |
| I know, too, that if stopped upon my route, | 5 |
| Where the green alleys windingly allure, | |
| Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way,— | |
| In England ’t would be dung, dust, or a dray. | |
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| I also like to dine on becaficas, | |
| To see the sun set, sure he ’ll rise to-morrow, | 10 |
| Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as | |
| A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow, | |
| But with all heaven to himself; the day will break as | |
| Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow | |
| That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers | 15 |
| Where reeking London’s smoky caldron simmers. | |
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| I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, | |
| Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, | |
| And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, | |
| With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, | 20 |
| And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, | |
| That not a single accent seems uncouth, | |
| Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, | |
| Which we ’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. | |
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| I like the women too (forgive my folly), | 25 |
| From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, | |
| And large black eyes that flash on you a volley | |
| Of rays that say a thousand things at once, | |
| To the high dama’s brow, more melancholy, | |
| But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, | 30 |
| Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, | |
| Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. | |
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