V

And, if we laugh not on it, shall we weep?

      Much more we shall not. Through the mournful hum

Of poets sonneteering in their sleep

      'Neath the pale olives, which droop, tickling some

On chin and forehead from a dream too deep,—

      Through all that drowsy hum of voices smooth,

The hopeful bird mounts carolling from brake;

      The hopeful child, with leaps to catch his growth,

Sings open-eyed for liberty's sweet sake;

      And I, who am a singer too, forsooth,

Prefer to sing with these who are awake,

      With birds, with babes, with men who will not fear

The baptism of the holy morning dew,

      (And many of such wakers now are here,

Complete in their anointed manhood, who

      Will greatly dare and greather persevere!)

Than join those old thin voices with my new,

And sigh for Italy with some safe sigh

Cooped up in music 'twist an oh and ah,—

      Nay, hand in hand with that young child, will I

Rather go singing "Bella libertà,"

      Than, with those poets, croon the dead or cry

"Se tu men bella fossi, Italia!"