Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/72



the Alps: the soul within me burned,

Italia, my Italia, at thy name:

And when from out the mountain's heart I came

And saw the land for which my life had yearned,

I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:

And musing on the marvel of thy fame

I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame

The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.

The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair,

And in the orchards every twining spray

Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:

But when I knew that far away at Rome

In evil bonds a second Peter lay,

I wept to see the land so very fair.

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