Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/102

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THE WRITINGS OF OSCAR WILDE.

ii.

And yet what joy it were for me  To turn my feet unto the south,  And journeying toward the Tiber mouth To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines  That break the gold of Arno's stream,  To see the purple mist and gleamOf morning on the Apennines.
By many a vineyard-hidden home,  Orchard, and olive-garden gray,  Till from the drear Campagna's wayThe seven hills bear up the dome!

iii.

A pilgrim from the northern seas— What joy for me to seek alone  The wondrous Temple, and the throneOf Him who holds the awful keys!
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