Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Robert UnderwoodJohnson1110 Browning at Asolo
T
High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.
The very background Titian drew
To his peerless Loves! O tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew
The peaks and the shore and the lore between?
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir,
The Temple flashing with opal fire—
Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea.
Sat here, discerning cloud from snow
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow,
Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred row
Meets in a leafy bacchanal.
To the bells from Fontalto’s distant tower
Leading the evening in … ah, me!
Here breathes the whole soul of Italy
As one rose breathes with the breath of the bower.
When joy is keen as a thrust of pain.
Do you wonder the poet’s heart should miss
This touch of rapture in Nature’s kiss
And dream of Asolo ever again?
Nay, he is part of it now, no fear.
What most we love we are that alone.
His body lies under the Minster stone,
But the love of the warm heart lingers here.