III.

He sees the shadows o’er the valley creep— Nay, even knows he, through his guide’s clear speech, Where, at each hour, the ilex shade shall reach. Though blinded, he can feel the sunshine steep The hill he climbs; fair Italy’s soft air Grow yet more soft with pity for poor eyes That only feel the brightness of her skies, Not know the infinite depths that glisten there. And quick his ears catch sound of falling stream, Twitter of leaves in Vallombrosan woods, Bird-carol flung from chestnut solitudes; While soft-voiced waves, like music in a dream, Now tread with rippling touch Sorrento’s shore, Now rise and fall Venetian stairway o’er.