Page:A Picture-book without Pictures and Other Stories (1848).djvu/157



Pegasus.—Beneath the foliage roof of the orange trees sat the beautiful lady, and one of the poets read aloud to her Italian poetry; glorious, melodious poetry! The chapel-master leaned against the tall lemon tree, and listened and looked at the same time between the tall cypresses out upon the sea, where the sunshine caught the white sails of the ships. The other poet ran about in the fields, gathered red anemones, wove garlands, plucked first one and then another glowing orange; and they leaped, like golden apples into the clear air. There was holiday in his heart: there was song upon his lips! He felt, “I am once more in Italy!”

The horses stood in the stable each with his head in the manger; they also were well off. But where I stood, I, Pegasus, there was a door in the wall, and the door was open. I stretched out my head, and saw above the tops of the lemon trees and the dark cypresses, the white town upon the isthmus in the sea; and I neighed so, that I fancy the poets recognized my voice.