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| ALL is Italian here!—the orange grove, | |
| Through whose cool shade we every morning rove | |
| To pluck its glowing fruit; our villa white | |
| With loggias broad, where far into the night | |
| We sit and breathe the intoxicating air | 5 |
| With orange-blossoms filled, or free from care | |
| In the cool shadow of the morning lie | |
| And dream, and watch the lazy boats go by, | |
| Laden with fruits for Naples, the soft gales | |
| Swelling and straining in their lateen sails, | 10 |
| Or with their canvas hanging all adroop, | |
| While the oars flash, and rowers rise and stoop. | |
| Look at this broad, flat plain heaped full of trees, | |
| With here and there a villa,—these blue seas | |
| Whispering below the sheer cliffs on the shore, | 15 |
| These ochre mountains bare or olived o’er, | |
| The road that clings to them along the coast, | |
| The arching viaducts, the thick vines tost | |
| From tree to tree, that swing with every breeze,— | |
| What can be more Italian than all these? | 20 |
| The streets, too, through whose narrow, dusty track | |
| We ride in files, each on our donkey’s back, | |
| When evening’s shadow o’er the high gray walls, | |
| O’ertopped with oranges and olives, falls, | |
| And at each corner ’neath its roof of tiles, | 25 |
| Hung with poor offerings, the Madonna smiles | |
| In her rude shrine so picturesque with dirt. | |
| Is this not Italy? Your nerves are hurt | |
| By that expression,—dirt,—nay, then I see | |
| You love not nature, art, nor Italy. * * * * * | 30 |
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