Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FAREWELL TO ITALY, by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON Poet's Biography First Line: We lingered at domo d'ossola Last Line: Ah! How can he forget? Subject(s): Italy; Italians | ||||||||
WE lingered at Domo d'Ossola -- Like a last, reluctant guest -- Where the gray-green tide of Italy Flows up to a snowy crest. The world from that Alpine shoulder Yearns toward the Lombard plain -- The hearts that come, with rapture, The hearts that go, with pain. Afar were the frets of Milan; Below, the enchanted lakes; And -- was it the mist of the evening, Or the mist that the memory makes? We gave to the pale horizon The Naples that evening gives; We reckoned where Rome lies buried, And we felt where Florence lives. And as Hope bends low at parting For a death-remembered tone, We searched the land that Beauty And Love have made their own. We would take of her hair some ringlet, Some keepsake from her breast, And catch of her plaintive music The strain that is tenderest. So we strolled in the yellow gloaming (Our speech with musing still) Till the noise of the militant village Fell faint on Calvary Hill. And scarcely our mood was broken Of near-impending loss To find at the bend of the pathway A station of the Cross. And up through the green aisle climbing (Each shrine like a counted bead), We heard from above the swaying And mystical chant of the creed. Then the dead seemed the only living, And the real seemed the wraith, And we yielded ourselves to the vision We saw with the eye of Faith. Then she said, "Let us go no farther: 'T is fit that we make farewell While forest and lake and mountain Are under the vesper spell." As we rested, the leafy silence Broke like a cloud at play, And a browned and burdened woman Passed, singing, down the way. 'T was a song of health and labor, -- Of childlike gladness, blent With the patience of the toiler That tyrants call content. "Nay, this is the word we have waited," I said, "that a year and a sea From now, in our doom of exile, Shall echo of Italy." Just then what a burst from the bosquet -- As a bird might have found its soul! And each by the halt of the heart-throb Knew't was the rossignol. Then we drew to each other nearer And drank at the gray wall's verge The sad, sweet song of lovers, -- Their passion and their dirge. And the carol of Toil below us And the paean of Prayer above Were naught to the song of Sorrow, For under the sorrow was Love. Alas! for the dear remembrance We chose for an amulet: The one that is left to keep it -- Ah! how can he forget? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...1851: A MESSAGE TO DENMARK HILL by RICHARD HOWARD TONIGHT THE HEART-SHAPED LEAVES by JAN HELLER LEVI JEWISH GRAVEYARDS, ITALY by PHILIP LEVINE SAILING HOME FROM RAPALLO by ROBERT LOWELL SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW by LISEL MUELLER HOW DUKE VALENTINE CONTRIVED by BASIL BUNTING FRAGMENTS FROM ITALY: 1 by JOHN CIARDI AN ENGLISH MOTHER by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON |
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