Even in thy pale decay
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
And was thy home, pale wither’d thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns in golden light e’en now
Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave;