Classic Poem

My darling, born when o'er the poor
Home of my youth Hope fluttered by,
As a bird flies, when proudly I
Knocked at the unknown Future's door,

Now that my foot I firmly place
Upon the goal I 've fought to reach,
And all around me hoarsely screech
A brood of flattering popinjays,

My dove, a timid yearning fills
Thy heart o'er Apennine to fleet,
And build a new nest in the sweet
Air of thy native Tuscan hills.

Thou goest with love, with stainless faith,
With joy thou goest. Thy veil that flies
My Muse beholds with tearful eyes,
And sadly dreams, yet nothing saith:

Dreams of those days when thou, a child,
Did'st pluck flowers 'neath the acacia-tree,
Thy tiny hand in hers, while she
In heav'n saw shapes and phantoms wild:

Dreams of the days when round thy hair
Crept those fierce poems that shot red sparks
Of hatred 'gainst our oligarchs,
Our folk too base to do or dare.

And thou wast growing a thoughtful maid
When she with courage that knew no fear
Had stormed the Hills of Art, and there
Her Garibaldian flag displayed.

She looks and ponders. Would she fain
Retrace with thee the path of years,
And in thy children's smiles and tears
Dream all the old sweet dreams again?

Or were it better to fight on
Until the last dread summons calls?
Then, daughter — for to heaven's halls
No Beatrice hath before me gone —

Then there, where once Greek Homer passed
And Christian Dante, may thy dear
Familiar tones, thy soft glance cheer
And comfort me until the last.