Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/325

My old Assunta, too was dead, was dead—
O land of all men’s past! for me alone,
It would not mix its tenses. I was past,
It seemed, like others,—only not in heaven.
And, many a Tuscan eve, I wandered down
The cypress alley, like a restless ghost
That tries its feeble ineffectual breath
Upon its own charred funeral-brands put out
Too soon,—where, black and stiff, stood up the trees
Against the broad vermilion of the skies.
Such skies!—all clouds abolished in a sweep
Of God’s skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts and men,
As down I went, saluting on the bridge
The hem of such, before ’twas caught away
Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Underneath,
The river, just escaping from the weight
Of that intolerable glory, ran
In acquiescent shadow murmurously:
And up, beside it, streamed the festa-folk
With fellow-murmurs from their feet and fans,
(With issimo and ino and sweet poise
Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous talk)
Returning from the grand-duke’s dairy-farm
Before the trees grew dangerous at eight,
(For, ‘trust no tree by moonlight,’ Tuscans say)
To eat their ice at Doni’s tenderly,—
Each lovely lady close to a cavalier
Who holds her dear fan while she feeds her smile
On meditative spoonfuls of vanille,
He breathing hot protesting vows of love,