When tempests swept the pine-clad Appenines,
Humbling the pride of many a towering tree,
The fierce storm music to thy heart was free:
And when the wild bee, in the clustering vines
Where sleepy Arno like a jewel shines.
Winged lazily, he sang sweet songs to thee,
And winds that held weird murmurs of the sea
Made for thy soul vast, echo-haunted shrines.
What are the ages to a soul like thine,
Whose work is for all time, soaring away
From pain, and death, and every earth-made bound?
Ah! fadeless are the wreaths the long years twine
In fond remembrance of thy magic sway,
O mighty master of melodious sound!