Yet souls are damned and loves profaned.

    tingales will sing me mad!

    tingales, tingales.

    I marvel he birds can sing.

    ttle difference, in their view,

    Bet our tuscan trees t spring

    As vital flames into the blue,

    And dull round blots of foliage meant

    Like saturated sponges here

    to suck tent

    Is oo in tis clear.

    And still tingales.

    My native Florence! dear, forgone!

    I see across the Alpine ridge

    feast-day of Saint John

    S rockets from Carraia bridge.

    ty, tall h fire,

    trod deep do river of ours,

    h lamp and choir

    Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.

    I  ingales.

    I seem to float, o float

    Doream in festive guise;

    A boat strikes flame into our boat,

    And up t lady seems to rise

    As the shock had flashed

    A vision on us!  a head,

    leaping eyeballs!amp;mdasy dashed

    to splendour by a sudden dread.

    And still tingales.

    too bold to sin, too o die;

    Such women are so. As for me,

    I would we here, he and I,

    t moment, loving perfectly.

    caugh her loosed

    Gold ringlets... rarer in th...

    Nor anto bruised

    to sness by h.

    And still tingales.

    S reac my

    itongue, as snakes indeed

    Kill flies; nor ,

    Yearned after, in my desperate need,

    And followed him as he did her

    to coasts left bitter by tide,

    in