Oh, to be in England now that April's there.

Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): "Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'"

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

But there are times when patience proves at fault.

I do what many dream of, all their lives

Such ever was love's way: to rise, it stoops.