Solitary he stands, Clad in his goat-skins, Though all about him The busy throng Cometh and goeth. Overhead, the vast ruin, Wind-worn, time-wrought, Gloomily rises. Scarce doth he note it, Yet doth it give him The touch of nearness, Which the soul craves for In alien places: As the strayed mariner, Yearning, far inland, For sight of the sea, Smiles when he fingers a rope, or Heareth the wind Surge round the hedgerows As erst through the cordage; Or, on the endless, dusty, white high-road Puts his ear to the pole Vibrating with song, as the mast Erewhile rang with the hum Of the hurricane. What doth he here, Away from the pastures On the desolate Campagna? From his haggard face Sorrowfully his wild black eyes Stare on the weariness, The noise, and hurry, And surge of the traffic. Sometimes, a faint smile Flitteth athwart his face, When a woman, from the well, Passeth by with a conca Poised on her head: Thus oft hath he seen The peasant girls In the little hamlets Far out on the plain Or when a wine-cart With its tall cappoto A-swing like a high tent windswayed sidewise, Rattles in from the Appian highway, White with the dust of the Alban hills. What doth he here, He in whose eyes are The passion of the desert: He in whose ears rings The free music Of the winds that wander Through the desert-ruins? Not here, O Shepherd, Wouldst thou fain dwell, Though in the Holy City God's Regent lives: Better the desolate waste, Better the free lone life, For there thou canst breathe, There silence abideth, There, not the Regent, But God himself Dwelleth and speaketh. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLEEPY HOLLOW by WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1817-1901) THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 49. WILLOWWOOD (1) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE TEARS OF THE POPLARS by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS |