Ravenna.<br><br>A Year ago I breathed the Italian air, -<br>And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair, -<br>These fields made golden with the flower of March,<br>The throstle singing on the feathered larch,<br>The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,<br>The little clouds that race across the sky;<br>And fair the violets gentle drooping head,<br>The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,<br>The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,<br>The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire<br>Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);<br>And all the flowers of our English Spring,<br>Fond snow-drops, and the bright-starred daffodil.<br>Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,<br>And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;<br>And down the river, like a flame of blue,<br>Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,<br>While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.<br>A year ago! - it seems a little time<br>Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,<br>Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,<br>And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.