And ye, luxuriant flowers!
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties,
And cluster’d fruitage, born of sunny hours,
Under Italian skies:
Ye, that a thousand springs,
And leafy summers with their odorous breath,
May yet outlast,—what do ye there, bright things!
Mantling the place of death?
Of sunlight and soft air,
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green,