Under the orchards, under <br />The tree strung vines, little blue <br />Figures are making hay, high <br />On the steep hillsides above <br />Palladio's drowsy villas <br />And Tiepolo's swirling walls. <br />On the highest field they are <br />Still cutting with swinging scythes; <br />Down below they are tossing <br />The long swathes of hay to cure <br />In the sun; further down they <br />Are cocking it, or carrying <br />It off in two-wheeled donkey carts. <br />The Venetian plain vanishes <br />In haze. The nearby Alps are <br />Indefinite blue smudges, <br />Capped with faint streaks of orange <br />Snow. Clouds of perfume roll up <br />The hillside in waves. All the birds <br />Sing. All the flowers bloom. Here <br />At a stone table like this, <br />On a little hill like this, <br />In a circle of cypress <br />And olive like this, the infinite <br />Visited Leopardi, <br />And ravished him and carried <br />Him off in the deep summer. <br />It would carry me off, too, <br />If I knew where I wanted <br />To go, or if I just wanted <br />To go nowhere at all.<br /><br />Kenneth Rexroth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rogation-days/
