SPRING MORNING IN ITALY.
The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May,
Round old Ravenna’s clear-shown towers and bay;
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen—
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light;
And there’s a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp; the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil,
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;
And all the scene, in short—sky, earth, and sea—
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
’Tis nature full of spirits, waked and springing;
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town;
While happy faces striking through the green
Of leafy roads at every town are seen.
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white,
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light—
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine and swirl into the bay.
Already in the streets the stir grows loud,
Of expectation and a bustling crowd;
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run;
And pilgrims chanting in the morning sun.
Leigh Hunt.