AURORA LEIGH

My old Assunta, too was dead, was dead—

O land of all men’s past! for me alone,

It would not mix its tenses. I was past,

It seemed, like others,—only not in heaven.

And, many a Tuscan eve, I wandered down

The cypress alley, like a restless ghost

That tries its feeble ineffectual breath

Upon its own charred funeral-brands put out

Too soon,—where, black and stiff, stood up the trees

Against the broad vermilion of the skies.

Such skies!—all clouds abolished in a sweep

Of God’s skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts and men,

As down I went, saluting on the bridge

The hem of such, before ’twas caught away

Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Underneath,

The river, just escaping from the weight

Of that intolerable glory, ran

In acquiescent shadow murmurously:

And up, beside it, streamed the festa-folk

With fellow-murmurs from their feet and fans,

(With issimo and ino and sweet poise

Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous talk)

Returning from the grand-duke’s dairy-farm

Before the trees grew dangerous at eight,

(For, ‘trust no tree by moonlight,’ Tuscans say)

To eat their ice at Doni’s tenderly,—

Each lovely lady close to a cavalier

Who holds her dear fan while she feeds her smile

On meditative spoonfuls of vanille,

He breathing hot protesting vows of love,