Martinmas in the Tuscan Maremma

Grey mists climb the shaggy hills,
Fall in rain upon their crest,
'Neath the wind from the North- West
Bellows and whitens the sea.

But from wine that seethes in vats,
Through the town in ev'ry street
Floating odours pungent sweet
Fill all men's hearts with glee.

Sputtering loud with heat the spit
Turns above the glowing brands;
At his door the huntsman stands
Whistling, watches, o'er the lea,

'Gainst clouds of sombre rose relieved,
Flocks of birds dark plumaged stream;
How like exile thoughts that seem
Toward the setting sun to flee.