A Present from Rome
Were I to hang old Rome about my shoulder,
And melt in it, like air in mighty air,
Were I to taste its spice, I would make bolder,
To shake free, shake out many a putto fair.
I would haunt laughingly this rambling city,
Outdoing her shrieks with my sprite-like turns,
Out of which would arise a thing so witty,
Perceiving which, we could forget our yearns.
My cloak, myself cut lovely through our space,
Transforming form into a music drift,
From everywhere music looks in my face
Wedded to rays and shadow, wondrous gift.
Thus ’gainst all hectic am I quite immune,
Singing and showing forth my wayward tune.