Trumbull Stickney

Here you will find the Long Poem In Ampezzo of poet Trumbull Stickney

In Ampezzo

Only once more and not again--the larches 
Shake to the wind their echo, "Not again,"-- 
We see, below the sky that over-arches 
Heavy and blue, the plain 

Between Tofana lying and Cristallo 
In meadowy earths above the ringing stream: 
Whence interchangeably desire may follow, 
Hesitant as in dream, 

At sunset, south, by lilac promontories 
Under green skies ato Italy, or forth 
By calms of morning beyond Lavinores 
Tyrolward and to north: 

As now, this last of latter days, when over 
The brownish field by peasants are undone 
Some widths of grass, some plots of mountain clover 
Under the autumn sun, 

With honey-warm perfume that risen lingers 
In mazes of low heat, or takes the air, 
Passing delicious as a woman's fingers 
Passing aid the hair; 

When scythes are swishing and the mower's muscle 
Spans a repeated crescent to and fro, 
Or in dry stalks of corn the sickles rustle, 
Tangle, detach and go, 

Far thro' the wide blue day and greening meadow 
Whose blots of amber beaded are with sheaves, 
Whereover pallidly a cloud-shadow 
Deadens the earth and leaves: 

Whilst high around and near, their heads of iron 
Sunken in sky whose azure overlights 
Ravine and edges, stand the gray and maron 
Desolate Dolomites,-- 

And older than decay from the small summit 
Unfolds a stream of pebbly wreckage down 
Under the suns of midday, like some comet 
Struck into gravel stone. 

Faintly across this gold and amethystine 
September, images of summer fade; 
And gentle dreams now freshen on the pristine 
Viols, awhile unplayed, 

Of many a place where lovingly we wander, 
More dearly held that quickly we forsake,-- 
A pine by sullen coasts, an oleander 
Reddening on the lake. 

And there, each year with more familiar motion, 
From many a bird and windy forestries, 
Or along shaking fringes of the ocean, 
Vapours of music rise. 

From many easts the morning gives her splendour; 
The shadows fill with colours we forget; 
Remembered tints at evening grow tender, 
Tarnished with violet. 

Let us away! soon sheets of winter metal 
On this discoloured mountain-land will close, 
While elsewhere Spring-time weaves a crimson petal, 
Builds and perfumes a rose. 

Away! for her the mountain sinks in gravel. 
Let us forget the unhappy site with change, 
And go, if only happiness be travel 
After the new and strange:-- 

Unless 'twere better to be very single, 
To follow some diviner monotone, 
And in all beauties, where ourselves commingle, 
Love but a love, but one, 

Across this shadowy minute of our living, 
What time our hearts so magically sing, 
To meditate our fever, simply giving 
All in a little thing? 

Just as here, past yon dumb and melancholy 
Sameness of ruin, while the mountains ail, 
Summer and sunset-coloured autumn slowly 
Dissipate down the vale; 

And all these lines along the sky that measure 
Sorapis and the rocks of Mezzodi 
Crumble by foamy miles into the azure 
Mediterranean sea: 

Whereas to-day at sunrise, under brambles, 
A league above the moss and dying pines 
I picked this little--in my hand that trembles-- 
Parcel of columbines.