Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/175

Rh For me who stand in Italy today, Where worthier poets stood and sang before, I kiss their footsteps, yet their words gainsay: I can but muse in hope upon this shore Of golden Arno, as it shoots away Straight through the heart of Florence, 'neath the four Bent bridges, seeming to strain off like bows, And tremble, while the arrowy undertide Shoots on and cleaves the marble as it goes, And strikes up palace-walls on either side, And froths the cornice out in glittering rows, With doors and windows quaintly multiplied, And terrace-sweeps, and gazers upon all, By whom if flower or kerchief were thrown out, From any lattice there, the same would fall Into the river underneath, no doubt,— It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall and wall. How beautiful! The mountains from without Listen in silence for the word said next, (What word will men say?) here where Giotto planted His campanile, like an unperplexed Question to Heaven, concerning the things granted To a great people, who, being greatly vexed In act, in aspiration keep undaunted! (What word says God?) The sculptor's Night and Day, And Dawn and Twilight, wait in marble scorn, Like dogs couched on a dunghill, on the clay From whence the Medicean stamp's outworn,— The final putting off of all such sway By all such hands, and freeing of the unborn