Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/325

Rh 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,