Italia, seated by the sapphire sea,
Crooning of summers rich from long ago,
Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow
With rare romance and passionate poesy;
Hath time's delirium taken even thee,
Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo?
And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe,
Dead to the wonder that was Italy?
Farewell thy peace, farewell thy pride, farewell
The roseate rapture of the radiant years.
Thy breast shall nourish sorrows, and thy fears
Shall haunt the olives and the sunset bell;
Ah, thou shalt sigh for Francis and his cell,
And beat with Dante to the bourn of tears.