(sonnet # LIX)
LIX
It's Mendelssohn's Italian makes me fly.
Th'initial movement passion rouses, soars
So irresistibly, light dances, pours
Like horses galloping so furious, aye;
And breathless with excitement, countryside
With rolling vistas, rich and scenic, shores
I've never seen flit by; winding down before
I'm finished, starry-eyed....explosive dies.
Brief silence, then methodic'lly it plods;
Its life has aged? and never quite returns.
If Italy this symphony displays
In vivid colour passionate, it's gods
Still rule, its wine and ancient culture earns
Our love, and readily our passions sways.
30Mar11