Canto C
We leave the well-beloved placeWhere first we gazed upon the sky;The roofs, that heard our earliest cry,Will shelter one of stranger race.
We go, but ere we go from home,As down the garden-walks I move,Two spirits of a diverse loveContend for loving masterdom.
One whispers, here thy boyhood sungLong since its matin song, and heardThe low love-language of the birdIn native hazels tassel-hung.
The other answers, ‘Yea, but hereThy feet have stray’d in after hoursWith thy lost friend among the bowers,And this hath made them trebly dear.’
These two have striven half the day,And each prefers his separate claim,Poor rivals in a losing game,That will not yield each other way.
I turn to go: my feet are setTo leave the pleasant fields and farms;They mix in one another’s armsTo one pure image of regret.