SONG OF THE VINE, IN ENGLAND

Man:

O Vine along my garden wall,

Could I thine English slumber break,
And thee from wintry exile disenthral-
Where would thy spirit wake?

Vine:

I would wake at the hour of dawning in May in Italy, When rose mists rise from the Magra's valley plains, In the fields of maize and olives around Pontrémoli,

When peaks grow golden and clear and the starlight wanes. I would wake to the dance of the sacred mountains boundlessly

Kindling their marble snows in the rite of fire; To them my new-born tendrils softly and soundlessly Would uncurl and aspire.

I would hang no more on thy wall a rusted slumberer,
Listless and fruitless strewing the pathways cold.
I would seem no more in thine eyes an idle cumberer-
Profitless alien, bitter and sere and old.

In some warm terraced dell where the Roman rioted,
And still in tiers his stony theatre heaves,

Would I festoon with leaf-light his glory quieted,
And flake his thrones with leaves.

Doves from the mountain belfries would seek and cling to me,
To drink from the altar, winnowing the fragrant airs.
Women from olived hillsides by turns would sing to me,
Beating the olives or stooping afield in pairs.
On gala evenings the gay little carts of laborers,
Swinging from axles their horns against evil eye,
And crowded with children, revellers, pipers, and taborers
Chanting, would pass me by. . .

There go the pale blue shadows so light and showery
Over sharp Apuan peaks-rathe mists unwreathe,
Almond trees wake, and the paven yards grow flowery,
Crocuses cry from the earth at the joy to breathe.
There through the deep-eaved gateways of haughty-turreted
Arno-house-laden bridges of strutted stalls-

Mighty white oxen drag in the jars rich-spirited

Grazing the narrow walls!

Wine-jars I too have filled, and the heart was thrilled with

me.

Brown-limbed on shady turf the families lay:

Shouting they bowled the bowls; and old men, filled with

me,

Roused the September twilight with songs that day. Lanterns of sun and moon the young children flaunted me, Plaiters of straw from doorway to window cried.

Borne through the city gates the great oxen vaunted me, Swaying from side to side.

Wine-jars out of my leafage that once so vitally

Throbbed into purple, of me thou canst never take:

Thy heart would remember the towns on the branch of Italy, And teaching to throb I should teach it, perchance, to

break.

It would beat for those little cities, rock-hewn and mellowing,

Festooned from summit to summit, where still sublime Murmur her temples, lovelier in their yellowing

Than in the morn of time.

I from the scorn of frost and the wind's iniquity
Barren, aloft in that golden air would thrive:

My passionate rootlets draw from that hearth's antiquity
Whirls of profounder firè in us to survive.

The serried realms of our fathers would swell and foam

with us

Juice of the Latin sunrise; your own sea-flung

Rude and far-wandered race might again find home with us Leaguing with old Rome, young.

Herbert Trench

TO A GREY DRESS"

There's a flutter of grey through the trees:
Ah, the exquisite curves of her dress as she passes
Fleet with her feet on the path where the grass is!

I see not her face, I but see

The swift re-appearance, the flitting persistence-
There! of that flutter of grey in the distance.

It has flickered and fluttered away:

What a teasing regret she has left in my day-dream, And what dreams of delight are the dreams that one may

dream!

It was only a flutter of grey;

But the vaguest of raiment's impossible chances
Has set my heart beating the way of old dances.

DREAMS

I

To dream of love, and, waking, to remember you:

As though, being dead, one dreamed of heaven, and woke

in hell.

At night my lovely dreams forget the old farewell:

Ah! wake not by his side, lest you remember too!

II

I set all Rome between us: with what joy I set

The wonder of the world against my world's delight! Rome, that hast conquered worlds, with intellectual might Capture my heart, and teach my memory to forget!

Arthur Symons

THE WINDOWS

The windows of the little house look down the crooked lane,
Windows that are watching like a child's wide eyes;
Hopeful in the sunshine and wistful in the rain
And anxious in the winter when the blown snow flies.

Morning after morning I walk the fields a mile,

I go to town and back again, I swing the little gate;
But though I lift my face to them the windows never smile,
They only look above my head, and, looking, watch and wait.

Long since my watching ended-the heart-thrust and the

care.

It's only for the little house I keep its windows bright;
And sometimes on a May-day put a crimson flower there,
Or a lamp that burns unshaded on a wild Fall night.
Theodosia Garrison