Rogation Days

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