Two In The Campagna

I     I wonder do you feel to-day     As I have felt since, hand in hand,     We sat down on the grass, to stray     In spirit better through the land,     This morn of Rome and May? II     For me, I touched a thought, I know,     Has tantalized me many times,     (Like turns of thread the spiders throw     Mocking across our path) for rhymes     To catch at and let go. III     Help me to hold it! First it left     The yellowing fennel, run to seed     There, branching from the brickworks cleft,     Some old tombs ruin: yonder weed     Took up the floating weft, IV     Where one small orange cup amassed     Five beetles, blind and green they grope     Among the honey-meal: and last,     Everywhere on the grassy slope     I traced it. Hold it fast! V     The champaign with its endless fleece     Of feathery grasses everywhere!     Silence and passion, joy and peace,     An everlasting wash of air,     Romes ghost since her decease. VI     Such life here, through such lengths of hours,     Such miracles performed in play,     Such primal naked forms of flowers,     Such letting nature have her way     While heaven looks from its towers! VII     How say you? Let us, O my dove,     Let us be unashamed of soul,     As earth lies bare to heaven above!     How is it under our control     To love or not to love? VIII     I would that you were all to me,     You that are just so much, no more.     Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!     Where does the fault lie? What the core     O the wound, since wound must be? IX     I would I could adopt your will,     See with your eyes, and set my heart     Beating by yours, and drink my fill     At your souls springs, your part my part     In life, for good and ill. X     No. I yearn upward, touch you close,     Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,     Catch your souls warmth, I pluck the rose     And love it more than tongue can speak,     Then the good minute goes. XI     Already how am I so far     Out of that minute? Must I go     Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,     Onward, whenever light winds blow,     Fixed by no friendly star? XII     Just when I seemed about to learn!     Where is the thread now? Off again!     The old trick! Only I discern,     Infinite passion, and the pain     Of finite hearts that yearn.