understand the joy of Venus, whose son was love, and the tears of Madonna, whose Son was Love also.  And I shall hear the voice of Leonardo; and he will play upon his lyre of silver, that lyre in the shape of a horse’s head which he made for Sforza of Milan; and I shall see him touch the hands of Monna Lisa.  And I shall see the statue of snow that Buonarotti made; I shall find him under S. Miniato, and I shall weep with him.

So I shall dream in the sunset.  The Angelus will be ringing from all the towers, I shall have celebrated my return to the city that I have loved.  The splendour of the dying day will lie upon her; in that enduring and marvellous hour, when in the sound of every bell you may find the names that are in your heart, I shall pass again through the gardens, I shall come into the city when the little lights before Madonna will be shining at the street corners, and the streets will be full of the evening, where the river, stained with fading gold, steals into the night to the sea.  And under the first stars I shall find my way to my hillside.  On that white country road the dust of the day will have covered the vines by the way, the cypresses will be white half-way to their tops, in the whispering olives the cicale will still be singing; as I pass every threshold some dog will rouse, some horse will stamp in the stable, or an ox stop munching in his stall.  In the far sky, marvellous with infinite stars, the moon will sail like a little platter of silver, like a piece of money new from the mint, like a golden rose in a mirror of silver.  Long and long ago the sun will have set, but when I come to the gate I shall go under the olives; though I shall be weary I shall go by the longest way, I shall pass by the winding path, I shall listen for the whisper of the corn.  And I shall beat at my gate, and one will say Chi e, and I shall make answer.  So I shall come into my house, and the triple lights will be lighted in the garden, and the table will be spread.  And there will be one singing in the vineyard, and I shall hear, and there will be one walking in the garden, and I shall know.

FOOTNOTES: 

[85] Alas, this too has now become as nothing and its place knows it no more.—­E.H.

XI.  FLORENCE

PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA AND PALAZZO VECCHIO

In every ancient city of the world, cities that in themselves for the most part have been nations, one may find some spot holy or splendid that instantly evokes an image of that of which it is a symbol,—­which sums up, as it were, in itself all the sanctity, beauty, and splendour of her fame, in whose name there lives even yet something of the glory that is dead.  It is so no longer; in what confused street or shapeless square shall I find hidden the soul of London, or in what name then shall I sum up the lucid restless life of Paris?  But if I name the Acropolis, all the pale beauty of Athens will stir in my heart; and when I speak the word Capitolium, I seem to hear the thunder of the legions, to see the very face of Caesar, to understand the dominion and majesty of Rome.