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!
Then as the ivy steadfast clings 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.
1859.
