In Summer When the Sun's Mad Horses Pass

In summer when the sun's mad horses pass
Thro' more than half the heavens, we sink to rest
In Italy, nor tread the crackling grass,
But wait until they plunge into the west:
And could not you, Mazzini! wait awhile?
The grass is wither'd, but shall spring again;
The Gods, who frown on Italy, will smile
As in old times, and men once more be men.