II
Beyond the ilex-dome, against the west,
The sunset sky was crimson: "Then," you say,
"Fair is to-morrow, if the sky was red."
"Fair is to-morrow"? O, to-morrow fair
That wakes me from this dream?—Here from my tower
One planet marks where Prato lies below,
And yonder, through the tender gray and green
Of the high-branching plane-tree, shines a light
Betwixt the earth and heaven—a lure that means
Florence, and all its wonder; now, ah, now
The hour draws nigh when Italy once more
To me is of the past, a thought, a passion,
But all ungrasped of sense.
And what is that our Cosimo has said?
"To-day the nightingales have come."—Have come?
And I, tho' listening long, and with my soul,
I have not heard one tone.
In the Tower at Campi Bisenzio.
A SACRED COMEDY IN FLORENCE
IN WHICH TAKES PART A CERTAIN STATUE ON THE FAÇADE OF THE DUOMO
Lonely Pope upon his throne,
Cold in marble, high in air,
On the Duomo's checkered front—
Benediction, as is wont,
Falling from his saintly face
Down upon the clattering square:
Falls, to-day, a special grace,
For, in fact, he's not alone—
