Pleasant it is to lie amid the grass Under these shady locusts, half the day, Watching the ships reflected on the Bay, Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass; To note the swift and meagre swallow pass, Brushing the dewdrops from the lilac spray; Or else to sit and while the noon away With some old love-tale; or to muse, alas! On Dante in his exile, sorrow-worn; On Milton, blind, with inward-seeing eyes That made their own deep midnight and rich morn; To think that now, beneath Italian skies, In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave, Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave.