II

And yet what joy it were for me

      To turn my feet unto the south,

      And journeying towards the Tiber mouth

To kneel again at Fiesole!

And wandering through the tangled pines

      That break the gold of Arno's stream,

      To see the purple mist and gleam

Of morning on the Apennines.

By many a vineyard-hidden home,

      Orchard and olive-garden grey,

      Till from the drear Campagna's way

The seven hills bear up the dome!