Green grows the grass in these well-watered meadows
For here there bubbles from a hundred springs
The bright Clitumnus under dappled shadows
Of slender poplars where the faint breeze sings
And the green-showering tresses of weeping willows;
And all the pool is floored with woven weed
And caverns lined with glimmering mossy pillows
And pale blue rocks. Those bubbling waters feed
Rich farms, half-hidden behind a feathery screen
Of silver olive-boughs and trailing vines
Heavy with clusters purple, red, and green,
Soon to be trodden to red and golden wines.
And bounding either edge of the green plain,
The violet mountains lift their peaceful crowns,
Soaring like waves crest above crest again,
Still peopled by remote and ancient towns,—
Lofty Spoleto with its rocky gorge
Spanned by the aqueduct, and many a keep,
Spello and Montefalco, towns that urge
Stone street and scowling palace up the steep
And set a crown of towers on many hills,
Leaping abrupt and stark against the sky
And turbid at noon and eve with clanging bells.
From these and all the villages that lie
Scattered upon the plain, the countryfolk
Are flocking towards Foligno for the fair,
Bringing their goods. With song and curse and joke
They swelter along in the dry and dusty glare.
All day along the parched and dazzling roads
That straggle to the town from every part,
Oxen and mules and horses draw their loads
In wain and barrow and brightly painted cart.
While in the town all day, along the streets
And in that empty space within the walls
Edged with cool-shaded trees and long stone seats,
A crowd of busy folk are building stalls;
Till the place rings with hammering and knocking
And cracking whips and jangling harness-bells
And rumbling wheels of all the traffic flocking
In from the teeming plains and those blue hills.
Still with the growing crowd the din grows louder
With shouts of drivers, wagons turning, backing,
And stamping hooves that churn the dust to powder
And sweating men unloading and unpacking,
Spreading the wares in clusters on the grass
All duly planned like little towns with walls
And lanes and streets to let the buyers pass,
Or carefully disposed upon the stalls.
And carts and mules come pushing through the throng
Or scarlet wagon like a stranded hulk
That great white oxen slowly haul along
Heaving the yoke with all their noble bulk,
Patient, with branching horns and deep calm eyes
Like forest pools, and scarlet-tasselled brows.
Evening draws on; but ere the sunset dies
The bells in every tower and belfry rouse
A hum of clanging bronze that builds a dome
Of mellow noise above the din below,
So bright, it seems as if the shining foam
Of dust-motes and the golden evening glow
Were suddenly enchanted into sound.
But when both sound and light from the sky have faded
And colour has faded from all the hills around
And streets and squares are all grown cool and shaded,
Those weary folk make ready for the night.
Some with tarpaulin sheets build bivouacs
Or over the wide wagons stretch them tight
To form a hutch, or spread their rugs and sacks
Under the carts, while every tethered beast
With drooping head crops at the scanty grass.
Then, before rest, they spread the evening feast
Grouped about lamps and lanterns, and they pass
The wine-flask, the brown loaf and honeyed figs
And marbled mortadella and pale cheese.
Then someone tunes a fiddle and scratches jigs
Or softly from the darkness of the trees
Jingles a mandoline, so sad, so faint,
It sounds as though dead fingers touched the strings:
And laughter comes in gusts and through the quaint
Dark-huddled groups the yellow lamplight flings
Brightness across the corner of a shawl
Or fires a hand or gilds a laughing face
Or, touching hidden boughs, reveals a fall
Of emerald leaves with shadows frail as lace.
Then lamps go out and laughter dies and each
Creeps to his bed, and moonlight fills the square
And silence, broken by the lone owl’s screech,
While all lie dreaming of to-morrow’s fair
Till the delicious coolness of early dawning
Sharpens the air and all is fresh and gleaming,
And a chill fragrance steals beneath the awning