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How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls In quiet shafts of light through the high trees Which, arching, make a roof above the walls Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer Of vague romance, and times long history; Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white, Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy. What sound is that which echoes through the wood? Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe? Perchance a minute more will see the brood Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip Will rest the rushes he is wont to play. His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns, So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway As they the measure tread to the lilting flute. Alas! t is only Fancy thus adorns. A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun. How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange! Surely t was here some tragedy was done, And here the chorus sang each coming change? | 
