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.

Something of this power of evocation may still be found in the Piazza
della Signoria of Florence: all the love that founded the city, the
beauty that has given her fame, the immense confusion that is her
history, the hatred that has destroyed her, lingers yet in that strange
and lovely place where Palazzo Vecchio stands like a violated fortress,
where the Duke of Athens was expelled the city, where the Ciompi rose
against the Ghibellines, where Jesus Christ was proclaimed King of the
Florentines, where Savonarola, was burned, and Alessandro de' Medici
made himself Duke.

It is not any