Sunday Afternoon In Italy

The man and the maid go side by side     With an interval of space between;     And his hands are awkward and want to hide,     She braves it out since she must be seen.     When some one passes he drops his head     Shading his face in his black felt hat,     While the hard girl hardens; nothing is said,     There is nothing to wonder or cavil at.     Alone on the open road again     With the mountain snows across the lake     Flushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable,     The loneliness daunts them, their stiff throats ache.     And he sighs with relief when she parts from him;     Her proud head held in its black silk scarf     Gone under the archway, home, he can join     The men that lounge in a group on the wharf.     His evening is a flame of wine     Among the eager, cordial men.     And she with her women hot and hard     Moves at her ease again.      She is marked, she is singled out         For the fire:         The brand is upon him, look - you,         Of desire.         They are chosen, ah, they are fated         For the fight!         Champion her, all you women! Men, menfolk         Hold him your light!         Nourish her, train her, harden her         Women all!         Fold him, be good to him, cherish him         Men, ere he fall.         Women, another champion!         This, men, is yours!         Wreathe and enlap and anoint them         Behind separate doors.      GARGNANO