I
“Partir—c’est mourir un peu!”
Francesco Paolo Tosti
Day! and its light falls on a thousand hills!
Day! and its strength flows in upon the heart!
High up in air fine fleece-white clouds do part,
And countless little valleys now light fills.
Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;
Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cart
Nor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,
Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.
O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soul
Pour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the roll
Of longing, futile thought, repining—pain—
That like thy hills I, too, may know again—
Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;
Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!