of the city. Then they will
troop by more splendid than princes, the universal bankers, lords of
Florence: Cosimo the hard old man, Pater Patriae, the greatest of his
race; Piero, the weakling; Lorenzo il Magnifico, tyrant and artist; and
over his shoulder I shall see the devilish, sensual face of Savonarola.
And there will go by Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta; Piero the exile;
Giovanni the mighty pope, Leo X; Giulio the son of Guiliano, Clement
VII; Ippolito the Cardinal, Alessandro the cruel, Lorenzino his
assassin, Cosimo l'Invitto, Grand Duke of Tuscany, bred in a convent and
mourned for ever.

So they pass by, and their descendants follow after them, even to poor,
unhappy, learned Gian Gastone, the last of his race.

And around them throng the artists; yes, I shall see them all. Angelico
will lead me into his cell and show me the meaning of the Resurrection.
With Lippo Lippi I shall play with the children, and talk with Lucrezia
Buti at the convent gate; Ghirlandajo will take me where Madonna Vanna
is, and with Baldovinetti I shall watch the dawn. And Botticelli will
lead me into a grove apart: I shall see the beauty of those three women
who pass, who pass like a season, and are neither glad nor sorry; and
with him I shall 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