I.
Your
ghost
will
walk,
you
lover
of
trees,
(If
our
loves
remain)
In
an
English
lane,
By
a
cornfield-side
a-flutter
with
poppies.
Hark,
those
two
in
the
hazel
coppice—-
A
boy
and
a
girl,
if
the
good
fates
please,
Making
love,
say,—-
The
happier
they!
Draw
yourself
up
from
the
light
of
the
moon,
And
let
them
pass,
as
they
will
too
soon,
With
the
bean-flowers'
boon,
And
the
blackbird's
tune,
And
May,
and
June!
II.
What
I
love
best
in
all
the
world
Is
a
castle,
precipice-encurled,
In
a
gash
of
the
wind-grieved
Apennine
Or
look
for
me,
old
fellow
of
mine,
(If
I
get
my
head
from
out
the
mouth
O'
the
grave,
and
loose
my
spirit's
bands,
And
come
again
to
the
land
of
lands)—-
In
a
sea-side
house
to
the
farther
South,
Where
the
baked
cicala
dies
of
drouth,
And
one
sharp
tree—-'tis
a
cypress—-stands,
By
the
many
hundred
years
red-rusted,
Rough
iron-spiked,
ripe
fruit-o'ercrusted,
My
sentinel
to
guard
the
sands
To
the
water's
edge.
For,
what
expands
Before
the
house,
but
the
great
opaque
Blue
breadth
of
sea
without
a
break?
While,
in
the
house,
for
ever
crumbles
Some
fragment
of
the
frescoed
walls,
From
blisters
where
a
scorpion
sprawls.
A
girl
bare-footed
brings,
and
tumbles
Down
on
the
pavement,
green-flesh
melons,
And
says
there's
news
to-day—-the
king
Was
shot
at,
touched
in
the
liver-wing,
Goes
with
his
Bourbon
arm
in
a
sling:
—-She
hopes
they
have
not
caught
the
felons.
Italy,
my
Italy!
Queen
Mary's
saying
serves
for
me—-
(When
fortune's
malice
Lost
her—-Calais)—-
Open
my
heart
and
you
will
see
Graved
inside
of
it,
``Italy.''
Such
lovers
old
are
I
and
she:
So
it
always
was,
so
shall
ever
be!