VII.

So, poet-led, I trod Italian ways, Seeing the glimmer of pale olive-trees, Drifting, entranced, o’er warm Sicilian seas, Hearkening Siena’s perfect speech of praise, Drinking of Trevi’s fountain, o’er and o’er, Yet craving ever something still more rare, Some gift of grace that Italy must wear To make her so the heart’s-best evermore; Some crown above her hills, than her blue seas More luminous, beyond her painters’ fame, Or passionate poets’ soaring words of flame, More than all proudest earthly destinies. So drowned, amid the peal of Saxon bells, Thought of that life wherein her true soul dwells.