“Rich is the soil with Fancy’s gold;
The stirring memories of old
Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit’s young ambition.
But as the radiant sunsets close
Above Val d’Arno’s bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory,
And deems our love a dearer story.
Thy words, in Memory’s ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;