At the British Museum

 I turn the page and read: 
"I dream of silent verses where the rhyme 
Glides noiseless as an oar.
" 
The heavy musty air, the black desks, 
The bent heads and the rustling noises 
In the great dome 
Vanish .
.
.

And 
The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky, 
The boat drifts over the lake shallows, 
The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds, 
The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns, 
And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle 
About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle.
.
.

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