The Watershed

Lines written between Munich and Verona

Black mountains pricked with pointed pine A melancholy sky. Out-distanced was the German vine, The sterile fields lay high. From swarthy Alps I travelled forth Aloft; it was the north, the north; Bound for the Noon was I.

I seemed to breast the streams that day; I met, opposed, withstood The northward rivers on their way, My heart against the flood-- My heart that pressed to rise and reach, And felt the love of altering speech, Of frontiers, in its blood.

But O the unfolding South! the burst Of summer! O to see Of all the southward brooks the first! The travelling heart went free With endless streams; that strife was stopped; And down a thousand vales I dropped, I flowed to Italy.