And if e'er you should come down to the village or the town, With the cold rain for your garland, and the wind for your renown, You will stand upon the thresholds with a face of dumb desire, Nor be known by any fire. What would you see in your proud land, Petrarch, If you came back again to Italy, And in the Garden of the Medici Could listen to the nightingale or lark And dream of Laura in the fragrent dark?
