It airily runs, a rosary of sound—
Bursts silverly on sainted Palestine;
Lives for a moment on the Apennine;
Flings on the fields of France a far refrain;
Sends a sweet trouble on the bells of Spain;
Touches Manhattan; hurries on to be
A murmur on Saint Francis by the sea.
But dreamily here the hours of evening go,
With tented haycocks in the rosy glow—
Gray heaps that Homer saw in ages gone,