The way one goes to find old Rome,
Its far away sign a purple dome.
But not for me the glittering shrine:
I worship my God in the Apennine!
To all save those of artist eyes,
The listeners to silent symphonies,
Only a cottage small is mine,
With poppied pasture, sombre pine.
But they hear anthems, prayer, and bell,
And sometimes they hear an organ swell;
They see what seems—so saintly fair—
Madonna herself a-wandering there,
Bearing baby so divine
They speak of the Child in Palestine!
Yet I, who threw my palette down
To fight on the walls of yonder town,
Know them for wife and baby mine,
As, weeping, I trace them, line by line,
In far-off glen of Apennine!