Dear love, an’ thou wert here,
Flowers would blossom and birds would sing,—
Brown leaves, shrivelled and sere,
At this fall o’ the year
Would don the tender green of the spring!
Dear love, an’ thou wert here.
And the sun would shine
Over hill, sea-shore, and valley and plain;
Flooding with light divine
This waiting heart of mine;—
For joy at the thought of thy coming again
The clouds would break and shine.
Dear love, an’ thou wert here,
The driving rain and the misty air,
And the dark day drear
Come no more anear;
New joy, new earth, new heaven be fair,
Dear love, an thou wert here.
Up and down, up and down,
Through the winding streets of the quaint old town,
Now a glimpse through this sunlit archway—look !
Here, the stony path of a mountain brook,
There, palm and olive and orange tree,
Far down below, the glittering sea,
And sunny headlands keen and clear,
In the luminious, sparkling atmosphere.
Up and down, up and down,
Through the narrow streets of the old, old town,
Up the rugged, well-worn, steep stone stairs
To the church where the peasants say their prayers;
And the dark-eyed women, one by one,
Step from the shadow into the sun,
With linen down to the mountain’s stream,
While the old crones chatter and nod and dream.
The jutting houses, sombre and high,
Almost shut out the warm blue sky,
The ”earthquake arches” slant across,—
Here is a tuft of golden moss,—
A waving palm branch over there,
Bits of bright colour everywhere,
Lemons and oranges on the ground;
From doorways dim the garrulous sound
Of the old crones’ voices, the patois shrill
Of the children straggling down the hill.
The men are at work with olive and vine,
And the old ones bask in the warm sunshine.
Have they basked in the sun a hundred years?
Has anguish touched them, nor time, nor tears?
So long as the sun floods their southern sky,
They—they are happy—so am I.