Pleasant it is to lie amid the grass
Under these shady locusts, half the day,
Watching the ships reflected on the Bay,
Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass;
To see the happy-hearted martins pass,
Brushing the dew-drops from the lilac-spray:
Or else to hang enamored o'er some lay
Of faery regions; or to muse, alas!
On Dante, exiled, journeying outworn;
On patient Milton's sorrowfullest eyes,
Shut from the splendors of the Night and Morn;
To think that now, beneath the Italian skies,
In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave,
Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave.
"RUNNING AT THE HEADS":