WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA
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WANDERED through Scoglietto’s far retreat,The oranges on each o’erhanging sprayBurned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleetMade snow of all the blossoms; at my feetLike silver moons the pale narcissi lay:And the curved waves that streaked the great green bayLaughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hoursHad drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.
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