 Italy: Vols. XI–XIII.  1876–79. Serchio, the River The Boat
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822) OUR boat is asleep on Serchio’s
stream, Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, The helm
sways idly hither and thither. Dominic, the boatman, has brought
the mast And the oars and the sails; but ’t is sleeping
fast,        5 Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. The
stars burnt out in the pale blue air, And the thin white moon
lay withering there; To tower and cavern and rift and tree The
owl and the bat fled drowsily.        10 Day had kindled the
dewy woods, And the rocks above and the stream below, And the
vapors in their multitudes, And the Apennines’ shroud of summer
snow, And clothed with light of airy gold        15 The mists in
their eastern caves uprolled. Day had awakened all things that
be,— The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, And the
milkmaid’s song and mower’s scythe, And the matin-bell and the
mountain bee.        20 Fireflies were quenched on the dewy
corn; Glow-worms went out on th