Guido Savella.
73
To the light trip of dreams like trooping zephyrs.
And every thought sang, jubilant, as it rose,
And every dream its gossamer wings unfolding,
Warmed in his spirit's sunshine. Like a band
Of nymphs that dance to music, all his fancies
Came with a twin-born melody. For rhythm
Seemed his soul's natural language, and it flowed
Effortless as the harmonies of a bird.
And so the poet's day passed vision-like,
Filled with the bright confusion of a dream.
Now worn and fever-flushed, he would have called
His wild thoughts to their nests, and bade sweet peace
Descend like dew at evening. But in vain.
Wearily crept the sunshine to his eye;
The fall of footsteps down the narrow street,
Each varied tone in the great city's voice,
Fell like a pang on nerves the lightest touch
Now thrilled to painfulness. The windless air
Pressed on his forehead like a steadfast hand,
And still resolving rest, he still thought on,
Wearied to pain.
The cool, half-mystical light
And every thought sang, jubilant, as it rose,
And every dream its gossamer wings unfolding,
Warmed in his spirit's sunshine. Like a band
Of nymphs that dance to music, all his fancies
Came with a twin-born melody. For rhythm
Seemed his soul's natural language, and it flowed
Effortless as the harmonies of a bird.
And so the poet's day passed vision-like,
Filled with the bright confusion of a dream.
Now worn and fever-flushed, he would have called
His wild thoughts to their nests, and bade sweet peace
Descend like dew at evening. But in vain.
Wearily crept the sunshine to his eye;
The fall of footsteps down the narrow street,
Each varied tone in the great city's voice,
Fell like a pang on nerves the lightest touch
Now thrilled to painfulness. The windless air
Pressed on his forehead like a steadfast hand,
And still resolving rest, he still thought on,
Wearied to pain.
The cool, half-mystical light
