I Y OUR ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice 5 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say, The happier they! Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10 With the beanflowers boon, And the blackbirds tune, And May, and June! II What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurld, 15 In a gash of the wind-grievd Apennine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth O the grave, and loose my spirit s bands, And come again to the land of lands) 20 In a sea-side house to the farther South, Where the bakd cicala dies of drouth, And one sharp treet is a cypressstands, By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough iron-spikd, ripe fruit-oercrusted, 25 My sentinel to guard the sands To the waters edge. For, what expands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break? While, in the house, for ever crumbles 30 Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, And says there s news to-daythe king 35 Was shot at, touchd in the liver-wing, Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy! Queen Marys saying serves for me 40 (When fortunes malice Lost her Calais) Open my heart and you will see Gravd inside of it, Italy. Such lovers old are I and she: 45 So it always was, so shall ever be.