It's very strange James, D H doesn't seem to be recognised. Why? He's an individualist, is that not what a poet, novelist, writer, sets out to achieve. Form poetry, if written well, is like music, and certainly is a feather in one's cap to write poetry and understand why the word that is written runs perfect to the intricate form system laid down the English, Italian or foreigners in times of yore. You prove to fellow poets that you understand the basic principals of writing and grammar. For all that, poetry differs from music, an opera singer can learn the scales, get professional coaching and end up at La Scala. Not so with poetry.
Bat, the poem, the opening four lines are simple thoughts of enjoyment, words to describe the countryside near Florence are flung about with gay abandon, wonderful images, reflect the departure of the sun. Then Florence, the tired flower wilts in the gloom beneath the glowing brown hills.
This a great poem James, the expertise of DH, a few chosen words, a change of scenery, and then the sudden realization that things aren't so good, the change of well-being to a crawling scalp of fear.
Your an interesting and lucky man James, you were fortunate to be brought up in an area that happend to be the same domicile of the famous. Even your education!
Bats (flying foxes) are protected here also. A large colony lived in the upper reaches of a creek, when I was a lad, and visited our fruit orchard quite frequently, when the fruit was in season. They used to make a 'arnek' squeaking noise, and if you were near the trees you would the 'wount-wount' of their rubbery wings.