BESIDE LAKE COMO

  The faun
  Isola Comacina
  the old carrier
  evening on lake Como
  Delio Patri
  Acqua Fredda
  the postern gate
  Undine
  January in the Tremezzina
  the wanderer
  seclusion
  one more
  under the plane tree
  “Conjugi Carissimae”
  The pagan past
  retirement
  in November
  the call of the blood
  the cascade
  bird slaughter
  the iron crown
  contrasts
  in my Pergola
  evanescence
  lake Como in autumn
  to the portrait of Napoleon
  day and night
  passing and permanent
  Tripoli
  influence
  Leo
  farewell to the faun
  wakefulness
  Villa PLINIANA
  point Balbianello
  at Lenno

PERSONALLY ADDRESSED

  Lines written for A golden Wedding
  to the walking-Stick of my dead friend
  to C.
  To Mr. And Mrs. A.H.S. 
  To M.C.  Of Athens
  to J.B. 
  To M.P. 
  To miss Mary C. Low
  in memoriam.  G.M.M. 
  To Hon.  Charles M. Dickinson
  to J.C.Y. 
  To Hon.  Jesse HOLDOM

TRANSLATIONS

  The kiss to the flag
  Emily’s grave
  serenade to Ninon
  the red Tyrolean eagle
  Andreas Hofer
  stream and sea

* * * * *

  Rachel

MY “PROMENADE SOLITAIRE”

Up and down in my garden fair,
Under the trellis where grapes will bloom,
With the breath of violets in the air,
As pallid Winter for Spring makes room,
I walk and ponder, free from care,
In my beautiful Promenade Solitaire.

Back and forth in the checkered shade
Traced by the lattice that holds the vine,
With the glory of snow-capped crests displayed
On the sapphire sky in a billowy line,
I stroll, and ask what can compare
With the charm of my Promenade Solitaire.

To and fro ’neath the nascent green
Which clambers over its slender frame,
With white peaks lighting up the scene,
As snowfields glow with the sunset flame,
I saunter, halting here and there
For the view from my Promenade Solitaire.

In and out through the silence sweet,
Plash of fountain and song of bird
Are the only sounds in my lov’d retreat
By which the air is ever stirred;
It is like a long-drawn aisle of prayer,
So hushed is my Promenade Solitaire.

Onward rushes the world without,
But the breeze which over my garden steals
Brings from it merely a distant shout
Or the echo light of passing wheels;
In its din and drive I have now no share,
As I muse in my Promenade Solitaire.