UP AT A VILLA—DOWN IN THE CITY.
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8.
All the year at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger,
Except yon cypress that points like a Death's lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle,
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.
Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill.
All the year at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger,
Except yon cypress that points like a Death's lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle,
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.
Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill.
9.
Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:
Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:
