“What have I got here?  Just azure hills and peace,
  Green moss and green fern on roads that never cease. 
  And if my heart grows weary of such pleasurings as these,
  There’s a baby who comes romping through the nursery of the trees!”

The Trail from Napoli

  From Capo di Sorrento, its poppies and its clover,
    The headlands of Fosilipo, the wharves of Napoli,
  A wide blue trail runs westward to the ocean rim and over
    To where there lies a little town with lights along the sea.

  Here pink and blue the villas crowd beside the yellow sand,
    And sweet and hot, the scented winds puff sultry to the bay,
  The shadow of Vesuvius lies gray across the land—­
    And on my heart a loneliness that calls me far away.

  My restless feet are weary of these hills of purple vines,
    These crooked groves of olive trees that scrawl the crooked lanes
  The walnuts shoulder weakly round the tall Italian pines,
    That whisper like the waves of wheat across the yellow plains.

  All day beneath the ruins of Donn’ Anna gaunt and black,
    The boats of fisher-folk go by with song and trailing net;
  And dim the cloud of Capri where the red feluccas tack—­
    But still the belching funnels smirch the trail I can’t forget.

  Virgil’s tomb gapes empty where the oranges are bright,
    Above the Roman corridors that goats and beggars tread;
  Soft voices and thin music and laughter all the night—­
    I only see a thousand leagues the Channel lights burn red;

  I only hear dear English tongues forever calling me,
    Across the high white English cliffs and flowers of the foam;
  I only breathe sweet lilac bloom a-blowing out to sea—­
    A-blowing down the long sea-lanes to lead a lover home!

The Changing Year

  Summer, autumn, winter, spring—­
  Back and forth the seasons swing;
    Sun and snows returning ever,
  Like the wild geese on the wing.

  When the clean sap climbs the tree,
  When the strong winds groan and flee—­
    Dance the daisies on the hill-tops
  To the thin tune of the bee.

  When the golden noons hang still,
  Crimson flames run down the hill,
    And the musk-rats in the bayou
  Feel the waters growing chill.

  Wood-smoke mists the naked moor;
  Dead leaves shroud the forest floor;
    When the white frosts cross the threshold,
  Summer softly shuts the door.

  Like cold love and empty pain,
  Fades the sun and drifts the rain. 
    Tips the world and slips the season,
  Swinging wide the doors again.

Runners of the Rain

Gaunt and black the naked pines are scrawled across the sky;
The wild wet winds are clinging where the hard peaks lift and soar;
They watch our long gray hosts of rain forever marching by,
While up through all the canyons we send our sullen roar.