Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.