Italian Lyric

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Italian Lyric



Here’s a large bunch of new, sweet
purple grapes of Italy.
Babies reach for the fruit.
A goat jumps at the cheering.
I’m a satyr today.
I’ve slung my pipe of seven reeds
on a tree stump.
I feel sure-footed for the way
uphill again.

I know an abandoned mountaintop
palace of gold,
a villa with doors thrown open.
In a sunny courtyard, we’ll be soothed
by the gurgle and splash
of many bright fountains.
We’ll picnic on sharp white cheese,
red Tuscan wine and
small black olives,
picked in the grove
of the quiet Greek library.

From pink marble, high-vaulted rooms, we’ll plunge into cold
and hot baths.
Nymphs of carved stone
will suggest caresses
that fulfill our affections.

Beside the pool, we’ll quiet
the honking, squabbling swans
with wet grass, purple-flowered ferns
and daisies to gobble.