't is thou, my dove, dost steal thyself away,
willing a new nest for thyself to weave
beyond the Apennines, where thou may'st feel
the native sweet air of the Tuscan hills.
Go then with love; go then with joy: O go
with all thy pure white faith! The eye
grows dim in gazing at the flying sail.
Meanwhile my Camena is still and thinks,—
thinks of the days when thou, my little one,
went gathering flowers beneath the acacia-trees,