Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!
II
The Dream of Spain
Tad’ma’s Italian Spring!—the languor, light,
That bathes in lucent waves that marbled sweep
Veined rich as are those women there who keep,
Idling by day, flower-crowned, a dream of night!
Frail, blossom-hung, a pink Spring tree to right,
Where silent, saffron-robed, one watch does keep
O’er waters deep as are his own thoughts deep,