Past the villa on the hill.
On the beach the nets are drying,
And the lazy fishers bask,
In the drowsy sunshine lying,
Talking o'er their morning's task.
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From the vines the breeze is bringing
Fragments of some old refrain;
Voices mingle with the singing,
Like the robins in the grain.
Whither is my fancy tending?
'T is a picture three years old,
That I've carelessly been blending
With the scenes that now unfold.
What is past, and what is present?
What is real, what fancy-bred?
Whence this message deep and pleasant
From my life now three years dead?