Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/15

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Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air, Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh there; Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines, Lovely though fallen,—for the ivy twines Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane, As still in some shape beauty would remain. I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art The promised land that haunts my dreaming heart. Perchance it is as well thou art unknown: I could not bear to lose what I have thrown Of magic round thee,—but to find in thee What hitherto I still have found in all— Thou art not stamp'd with that reality Which makes our being's sadness, and its thrall! But now, whenever I am mix'd too much With worldly natures till I feel as such;—