O Death of things that are, Eternity
Of things that seem!
Of all the happy past remains to me,
To-day, a dream!
Long blessèd days of love and wakening thought,
All, all are dead;
Nothing endures we did, nothing we wrought,
Nothing we said.
But once I dreamed I sat and sang with you
On Ida hill.
There, in the echoes of my life, we two
Are singing still.
_Tuscan Cypress._
(SIXTEEN RISPETTI.)
[Illustration]