Sonnet on approaching Italy

I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned

Italia, my Italia, at thy name:

And when from out the mountain’s heart I came

And saw the land for which my life had yearned,

I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:

And musing on the story of thy fame

I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame

The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned

The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,

And in the orchards every twining spray

Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:

But when I knew that far away at Rome

In evil bonds a second Peter lay,

I wept to see the land so very fair.

Oscar Wilde, from Rosa Mystica, 1881