Sonnet

Sparkles beneath this pale Italian sky The turquoise sea. Far down a blue boat dips And rises like a painted shell; and I Can see—from here—the curling, ivory tips That mark the sunlit dancing crests. And there, From that old wall, the campanula blows— As blue as Saxon eyes ’mid Saxon hair; And there the grape all dusty purple grows. These colors change, and fade, and disappear— These last! (They say the primrose once was here!) If I could stand an æon from to-day, Here on the Punta Tragara, I know— There where the white beach rims the circling bay— I’d find the same blue tapestry below. C. L. WALKER.