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ILARIA her Italian castle keeps :

It is the Spring: the white walls top a hill Sole in the plain : beneath lie woodland deeps,

And open fields, and vineyards, and a still Bright stream that curves and glides through all the

land, And villages with church and bridge complete, Gardens and copses—things which one might stand

And feed the eyes on through an hour of sweetAnd everywhere young buds which to the light Like music break, Spring's magic and her might.



Amid this, like a morning mirage, shines

The castle, glorious in the warm sky's sheen; Like frozen symphonies its graceful lines Are hung between heaven's blue and earth's rich

green; A place with large halls and wide terraces,

And galleries which love light feet, and bowers
Where one may quit the state of palaces,

And by the window sit, and count the showers,
Or wake the secret spirit hid away
In an old harp, or dream on Dante's lay.


Her father was a duke of high degree,

And she sole heiress of his wide estate, A brave man, strong and masterful was he,

Had set his foot upon the neck of fate;
Her mother, gentle, dreamy, musical

Of spirit, and of mild benignity ;-
They from their distant dukedom watched the fall

Of new life on the plains of Italy
When from long death renascent man awoke
And dealt about him many a lusty stroke.

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