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.