PASTIME.
A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking, Two idle people, without pause or aim; While in the ominous west there gathers darkness Flushed with flame.
A haycock in a hayfield backing, lapping, Two drowsy people pillowed round about; While in the ominous west across the darkness Flame leaps out.
Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless, Better a wrecked life than a life so soft; The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fire Lit aloft.
"ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO!"
To come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die; Come back to do my day's work in its day, Play out my play-- Amen, amen, say I.
To see no more the country half my own, Nor hear the half familiar speech, Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North Whence I came forth-- The South lies out of reach.
But when our swallows fly back to the South, To the sweet South, to the sweet South, The tears may come again into my eyes On the old wise, And the sweet name to my mouth.