Drifting, entranced, o’er warm Sicilian seas,
Hearkening Siena’s perfect speech of praise,
Drinking of Trevi’s fountain, o’er and o’er,
Yet craving ever something still more rare,
Some gift of grace that Italy must wear
To make her so the heart’s-best evermore;
Some crown above her hills, than her blue seas
More luminous, beyond her painters’ fame,
Or passionate poets’ soaring words of flame,
More than all proudest earthly destinies.