Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. Ravenna.<br><br>A Year ago I breathed the Italian air, -<br>And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair, -<br>These fields made golden with the flower of March, <br>The throstle singing on the feathered larch, <br>The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by, <br>The little clouds that race across the sky;<br>And fair the violets gentle drooping head, <br>The primrose, pale for love uncomforted, <br>The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar, <br>The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire<br>Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);<br>And all the flowers of our English Spring, <br>Fond snow-drops, and the bright-starred daffodil.<br>Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill, <br>And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;<br>And down the river, like a flame of blue, <br>Keen as an arrow flies the water-king, <br>While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.<br>A year ago! – it seems a little time<br>Since last I saw that lordly southern clime, <br>Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow, <br>And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.
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