Poem: Holy Week At Genoa

I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat,

The oranges on each o'erhanging spray

Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet

Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet

Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:

And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay

Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,

'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,

O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.'

Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours

Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,

The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.