On the Way to Rome.
167
How like life's journey, swift unwind
The myrtle hours, hope and youth,
When little griefs—none greater seemed
Could ever wound—forsooth!
The myrtle hours, hope and youth,
When little griefs—none greater seemed
Could ever wound—forsooth!
Then as the ivy steadfast clings
Around its own sepulchral urn,
So tight we hold in clasp the hand
That clasps not in return.
Around its own sepulchral urn,
So tight we hold in clasp the hand
That clasps not in return.
And down the shadowy road we wend,
O'er drear Campagna wastes of life,
Till through earth's mist at last we see
Where ends this feverish strife.
O'er drear Campagna wastes of life,
Till through earth's mist at last we see
Where ends this feverish strife.
1859.
