Sonnet
Sparkles beneath this pale Italian skyThe turquoise sea. Far down a blue boat dipsAnd rises like a painted shell; and ICan see—from here—the curling, ivory tipsThat mark the sunlit dancing crests. And there,From that old wall, the campanula blows—As blue as Saxon eyes ’mid Saxon hair;And there the grape all dusty purple grows.These colors change, and fade, and disappear—These last! (They say the primrose once was here!)If I could stand an æon from to-day,Here on the Punta Tragara, I know—There where the white beach rims the circling bay—I’d find the same blue tapestry below.C. L. WALKER.
Sparkles beneath this pale Italian skyThe turquoise sea. Far down a blue boat dipsAnd rises like a painted shell; and ICan see—from here—the curling, ivory tipsThat mark the sunlit dancing crests. And there,From that old wall, the campanula blows—As blue as Saxon eyes ’mid Saxon hair;And there the grape all dusty purple grows.These colors change, and fade, and disappear—These last! (They say the primrose once was here!)If I could stand an æon from to-day,Here on the Punta Tragara, I know—There where the white beach rims the circling bay—I’d find the same blue tapestry below.C. L. WALKER.
Sparkles beneath this pale Italian skyThe turquoise sea. Far down a blue boat dipsAnd rises like a painted shell; and ICan see—from here—the curling, ivory tipsThat mark the sunlit dancing crests. And there,From that old wall, the campanula blows—As blue as Saxon eyes ’mid Saxon hair;And there the grape all dusty purple grows.
Sparkles beneath this pale Italian sky
The turquoise sea. Far down a blue boat dips
And rises like a painted shell; and I
Can see—from here—the curling, ivory tips
That mark the sunlit dancing crests. And there,
From that old wall, the campanula blows—
As blue as Saxon eyes ’mid Saxon hair;
And there the grape all dusty purple grows.
These colors change, and fade, and disappear—These last! (They say the primrose once was here!)If I could stand an æon from to-day,Here on the Punta Tragara, I know—There where the white beach rims the circling bay—I’d find the same blue tapestry below.
These colors change, and fade, and disappear—
These last! (They say the primrose once was here!)
If I could stand an æon from to-day,
Here on the Punta Tragara, I know—
There where the white beach rims the circling bay—
I’d find the same blue tapestry below.
C. L. WALKER.
C. L. WALKER.