And brushes me with wings—ah! brightly vast.
The promise that Life longs for most I feel
Has flashed its gold upon me. I can keep
Only the shadow in the urns of sleep.
LVIII
The Spring sun has swathed us in its toga’d light.
O! why were we not born in Sybaris!
I smell Damascus roses, sharp iris,
See streets Lucanian, gay, thus by night:
Rich balconies of marble hid from sight