O Italy of chiming bells,
Of pilgrim shrines and holy wells,
Of incense mist and secret prayers,
Profound and sweet as scented airs
Blown from a field of lily flowers !

O Italy of pagan vine,
That thrills with sap of sun-born wine,
Drenching the Christian soul with red
Warm liquid of a faith long dead,
Wafting it back to sensuous hours.

No mortal woman ever held
Such sweet inconstancies, or welled
With such hot springs of turbid fire ;
No being throbbed with such desire,
Thy very air is ecstacy !

O pagan goddess, from whose lips
The gentle Christian worship slips,
I fear thee, knowing what thou art
Yet I adore thee ; take my heart
I am thy lover, Italy !