The Englishman In Italy

PIANO DI SORRENTO     Fort, Fort, my beloved one,     Sit here by my side,     On my knees put up both little feet!     I was sure, if I tried,     I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco:     Now, open your eyes,     Let me keep you amused till he vanish     In black from the skies,     With telling my memories over     As you tell your beads;     All the memories plucked at Sorrento     The flowers, or the weeds.     Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn     Had net-worked with brown     The white skin of each grape on the bunches,     Marked like a quails crown,     Those creatures you make such account of,     Whose heads, speckled with white     Over brown like a great spiders back,     As I told you last night,     Your mother bites off for her supper;     Red-ripe as could be,     Pomegranates were chapping and splitting     In halves on the tree:     And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone,     Or in the thick dust     On the path, or straight out of the rock-side,     Wherever could thrust     Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower     Its yellow face up,     For the prize were great butterflies fighting,     Some five for one cup.     So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,     What change was in store,     By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets     Which woke me before     I could open my shutter, made fast     With a bough and a stone,     And look thro the twisted dead vine-twigs,     Sole lattice thats known!     Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,     While, busy beneath,     Your priest and his brother tugged at them,     The rain in their teeth:     And out upon all the flat house-roofs     Where split figs lay drying,     The girls took the frails under cover:     Nor use seemed in trying     To get out the boats and go fishing,     For, under the cliff,     Fierce the black water frothed oer the blind-rock.     No seeing our skiff     Arrive about noon from Amalfi,     Our fisher arrive     And pitch down his basket before us,     All trembling alive     With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit;     You touch the strange lumps,     And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner     Of horns and of humps,     Which only the fisher looks grave at,     While round him like imps     Cling screaming the children as naked     And brown as his shrimps;     Himself too as bare to the middle     You see round his neck     The string and its brass coin suspended,     That saves him from wreck.     But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,     So back, to a man,     Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards     Grape-harvest began:     In the vat, halfway up in our house-side,     Like blood the juice spins,     While your brother all bare-legged is dancing     Till breathless he grins     Dead-beaten in effort on effort     To keep the grapes under,     Since still when he seems all but master,     In pours the fresh plunder     From girls who keep coming and going     With basket on shoulder,     And eyes shut against the rains driving;     Your girls that are older,     For under the hedges of aloe,     And where, on its bed     Of the orchards black mould, the love-apple     Lies pulpy and red,     All the young ones are kneeling and filling     Their laps with the snails     Tempted out by this first rainy weather,     Your best of regales,     As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,     When, supping in state,     We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,     Three over one plate)     With lasagne so tempting to swallow     In slippery ropes,     And gourds fried in great purple slices,     That colour of popes.     Meantime, see the grape bunch theyve brought you,     The rain-water slips     Oer the heavy blue bloom on each globe     Which the wasp to your lips     Still follows with fretful persistence     Nay, taste, while awake,     This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball     That peels, flake by flake,     Like an onion, each smoother and whiter;     Next, sip this weak wine     From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,     A leaf of the vine,     And end with the prickly-pears red flesh     That leaves thro its juice     The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.     . . . Scirocco is loose!     Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives     Which, thick in ones track,     Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,     Tho not yet half black!     How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,     The medlars let fall     Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees     Snap off, figs and all,     For here comes the whole of the tempest!     No refuge, but creep     Back again to my side and my shoulder,     And listen or sleep.     O how will your country show next week,     When all the vine-boughs     Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture     The mules and the cows?     Last eve, I rode over the mountains;     Your brother, my guide,     Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles     That offered, each side,     Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,     Or strip from the sorbs     A treasure, so rosy and wondrous,     Those hairy gold orbs!     But my mule picked his sure sober path out,     Just stopping to neigh     When he recognized down in the valley     His mates on their way     With the faggots and barrels of water;     And soon we emerged     From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;     And still as we urged     Our way, the woods wondered, and left us,     As up still we trudged     Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,     And place was een grudged     Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones     (Like the loose broken teeth     Of some monster which climbed there to die     From the ocean beneath)     Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed     That clung to the path,     And dark rosemary ever a-dying     That, spite the winds wrath,     So loves the salt rocks face to seaward,     And lentisks as staunch     To the stone where they root and bear berries,     And . . . what shows a branch     Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets     Of pale seagreen leaves     Over all trod my mule with the caution     Of gleaners oer sheaves,     Still, foot after foot like a lady     Till, round after round,     He climbed to the top of Calvano,     And Gods own profound     Was above me, and round me the mountains,     And under, the sea,     And within me my heart to bear witness     What was and shall be.     Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!     No rampart excludes     Your eye from the life to be lived     In the blue solitudes.     Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!     Still moving with you     For, ever some new head and breast of them     Thrusts into view     To observe the intruder, you see it     If quickly you turn     And before they escape you surprise them.     They grudge you should learn     How the soft plains they look on, lean over     And love (they pretend)     Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,     The wild fruit-trees bend,     Een the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut     All is silent and grave     Tis a sensual and timorous beauty     How fair! but a slave.     So, I turned to the sea, and there slumbered     As greenly as ever     Those isles of the siren, your Galli;     No ages can sever     The Three, nor enable their sister     To join them, half way     On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses     No farther to-day,     Tho the small one, just launched in the wave,     Watches breast-high and steady     From under the rock, her bold sister     Swum half-way already.     Fort, shall we sail there together     And see from the sides     Quite new rocks show their faces new haunts     Where the siren abides?     Shall we sail round and round them, close over     The rocks, tho unseen,     That ruffle the grey glassy water     To glorious green?     Then scramble from splinter to splinter,     Reach land and explore,     On the largest, the strange square black turret     With never a door,     Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;     Then, stand there and hear     The birds quiet singing, that tells us     What life is, so clear!     The secret they sang to Ulysses     When, ages ago,     He heard and he knew this lifes secret     I hear and I know!     Ah, see! The sun breaks oer Calvano     He strikes the great gloom     And flutters it oer the mounts summit     In airy gold fume.     All is over! Look out, see the gipsy,     Our tinker and smith,     Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,     And down-squatted forthwith     To his hammering, under the wall there;     One eye keeps aloof     The urchins that itch to be putting     His jews-harps to proof,     While the other, thro locks of curled wire,     Is watching how sleek     Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall     An abbots own cheek!     All is over! Wake up and come out now,     And down let us go,     And see the fine things got in order     At Church for the show     Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening.     To-morrows the Feast     Of the Rosarys Virgin, by no means     Of Virgins the least     As youll hear in the off-hand discourse     Which (all nature, no art)     The Dominican brother, these three weeks,     Was getting by heart.     Not a pillar nor post but is dizened     With red and blue papers;     All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar     A-blaze with long tapers;     But the great masterpiece is the scaffold     Rigged glorious to hold     All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers     And trumpeters bold,     Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,     Who, when the priests hoarse,     Will strike us up something thats brisk     For the feasts second course.     And then will the flaxen-wigged Image     Be carried in pomp     Thro the plain, while in gallant procession     The priests mean to stomp.     All round the glad church lie old bottles     With gunpowder stopped,     Which will be, when the Image re-enters,     Religiously popped;     And at night from the crest of Calvano     Great bonfires will hang,     On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,     And more poppers bang!     At all events, come to the garden     As far as the wall;     See me tap with a hoe on the plaster     Till out there shall fall     A scorpion with wide angry nippers!     . . . Such trifles! you say?     Fort, in my England at home,     Men meet gravely to-day     And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws     Be righteous and wise     If twere proper, Scirocco should vanish     In black from the skies!