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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341374" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Florence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">City acclaimed from far-off days<br>Fair, and baptized in field of flowers,<br>Once more I scan, with eager gaze,<br>Your soaring domes, your storied towers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nigh on eight lustres now have flown<br>Since first with trembling heart I came,<br>And, girdled by your mountain zone,<br>Found you yet fairer than your fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was the season purple-sweet,<br>When figs are plucked, and grapes are pressed,<br>And all your folk with following feet<br>Bore a dead Poet to sacred rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You seemed to fling your gates ajar,<br>And gently lead me by the hand,<br>Saying, ``Behold! henceforth you are<br>No stranger in this Tuscan land.''</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And though no love my love can wean<br>From Albion's crags and cradling sea,<br>You, Florence, since that hour, have been<br>More than a foster-nurse to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And seems that welcome half profaned,<br>If, in your lap lain oft and long,<br>I cherish to have something drained<br>Of Dante's soul and Petrarch's song?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But more than even Muse can give,<br>Is Love, which, songless though we be,<br>While the unloving jarring live,<br>Makes life one long sweet melody.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you with love and friendship still<br>Have teemed, as teem your hills with wine,<br>And, through the seasons good or ill,<br>Have made their mellow vintage mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But most, while Fancy yet was young,<br>Yet timely cared no more to roam,<br>You lent your tender Tuscan tongue<br>To help me in my English home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So now from soft Sicilian shore,<br>And Tiber's sterner tide, I bring<br>My Autumn sheaves, to share once more<br>The rapture of your rainbow Spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I, lingering in your palaced town,<br>Asudden, 'neath some beetling pile,<br>Catch sight of Dante's awful frown,<br>Or Vinci's enigmatic smile;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, following olden footsteps, stroll<br>To where, from May-day's mocking pyre,<br>Savonarola's tortured soul<br>Went up to Heaven in tongues of fire;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or Buonarroti's godlike hand<br>Made marble block from Massa's steep<br>Dawn into Day at his command,<br>Or plunged it into Night and Sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Onward I pass through radiant squares,<br>And widening ways whose foliage shames<br>Our leafless streets, to one that bears<br>The best-beloved of English names,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And climb the white-veiled slopes arrayed<br>In bridal bloom of peach and pear,<br>While, 'neath the olive's phantom shade,<br>Lupine and beanflower scent the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wild-bees hum round golden bay,<br>The green frog sings on fig-tree bole,<br>And, see! down daisy-whitened way<br>Come the slow steers and swaying pole.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fresh-pruned vine-stems, curving, bend<br>Over the peaceful wheaten spears,<br>And with the glittering sunshine blend<br>Their transitory April tears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O'er wall and trellis trailed and wound,<br>Hang roses blushing, roses pale;<br>And, hark! what was that silvery sound?<br>The first note of the nightingale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Curtained, I close my lids and dream<br>Of Beauty seen not but surmised,<br>And, lulled by scent and song, I seem<br>Immortally imparadised.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When from the deep sweet swoon I wake<br>And gaze past slopes of grape and grain,<br>Where Arno, like some lonely lake,<br>Silvers the far-off seaward plain,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see celestial sunset fires<br>That lift us from this earthly leaven,<br>And darkly silent cypress spires<br>Pointing the way from hill to Heaven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then something more than mortal steals<br>Over the wavering twilight air,<br>And, messenger of nightfall, peals<br>From each crowned peak a call to prayer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now the last meek prayer is said,<br>And, in the hallowed hush, there is<br>Only a starry dome o'erhead,<br>Propped by columnar cypresses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Austin">Alfred Austin</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341374" data-title="Florence de Alfred Austin" data-description="City acclaimed from far-off days
Fair, and baptized in field of flowers,
Once more I scan, with eager gaze,
Your soaring domes, your storied towers.

Nigh on eight lustres now have flown
Since first with trembling heart I came,
And, girdled by you..."></div>
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