Category: Poetry
The mules, I think, will not be here this hour: They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toiled all night from Catana, And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, How gracious is the mountain at this hour! A thou...
Alone! On this charred, blackened, melancholy waste, Crowned by the awful peak, Etna’s great mouth, Round which the sullen vapor rolls,--alone! Pausanias is far hence, and that...
2. SCENE II.--_Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region ofThe noon is hot. When we have crossed the stream, We shall have left the woody tract, and come Upon the open shoulder of the hill. See how the giant spires of yellow bloom Of th...
1. SCENE I.--_Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna.The mules, I think, will not be here this hour: They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toiled all night from C...