Bronzed hills of oak that sweep
Up to Carrara's peaks of snow
Against a blue November sky,
Burnished with evening sunshine, glow
And bask in drowsy sleep —
When piercingly a cry
Rings from the little town below,
And startled echoes leap
From steep to steep.

What soul in agony
Cried out at sunset long ago
I'll never know;
But in my memory perpetually
Bronze hills and silver peaks and steely sky
Reverberate with that despairing cry.