Six hundred years ago, in Dante's time, Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme; When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story, Was like a garden tangled with the glory Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown, Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars, And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars, Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth, Making invisible motion visible birth,- Six hundred years ago, Palermo town Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke Of hated Frenchmen; and from Calpe's rock To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 'Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon, Was welcomed master of all Sicily,- A royal knight, supreme as kings should be In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry.
