Page:Maud, and other poems.djvu/163

Rh It told of England then to me, And now it tells of Italy. O love, we two shall go no longer To lands of summer beyond the sea;

So dear a life your arms enfold Whose crying is a cry for gold: Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nurseling of another sky Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by:

And I forgot the clouded Forth, The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North.