On Bellosguardo, when the year was young, We wandered, seeking for the daffodil And dark anemone, whose purples fill The peasant's plot, between the corn-shoots sprung. Over the grey, low wall the olive flung Her deeper greyness ; far off, hill on hill Sloped to the sky, which, pearly-pale and still, Above the large and luminous landscape hung. A snowy blackthorn flowered beyond my reach; You broke a branch and gave it to me there; I found for you a scarlet blossom rare. Thereby ran on of Art and Life our speech; And of the gifts the gods had given to each-- Hope unto you, and unto me Despair.