Here, where the vine and fig bask hand in hand,

And the hot lizard lies along the wall,

Blinded I shrink where cypress shadows fall,

And gaze upon the far-off mountains bland:

Then down the dusty track Lorenzo planned

Watch the slow oxen oscillating crawl

Sleek in the sultry glare, and feel withal

Half alien still in a familiar land.

But when from out the stone-pine slopes that rise

In the clear ether, black against the blue,

The cuckoo suddenly calls, I close mine eyes

In visionary rapture, think of you,

Hear the home-music of your Kentish skies,

And dream that I am drenched with English dew.