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 As this dead tragic land that she Found deadly, such was time to thee; Years passed thee withering in the red Maremma, years that deemed thee dead, Ages that sorrowed or that scorned; And all this while though all they mourned Thou sawest the end of things unclean, And the unborn that should see thee a queen. Have we not seen?

The weary poet, thy sad son, Upon thy soil, under thy skies, Saw all Italian things save one— Italia; this thing missed his eyes; The old mother-might, the breast, the face, That reared, that lit the Roman race; This not Leopardi saw; but we, What is it, Mother, that we see, What if not thee?

Look thou from Siena southward home, Where the priest's pall hangs rent on Rome, And through the red rent swaddling-bands Towards thine she strains her labouring hands. Look thou and listen, and let be All the dead quick, all the bond free;