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In the Piazza of San Petronio
DARK in the winter's crystal air arise
Bologna's turrets, and above them laughs
The mountain-slope all whitened by the snows.
It is that mellowest hour when the sun
His dying salutation on the towers
And, Saint Petronius, on thy temple sheds,—
Towers whose battlements the broad-spread wings
Of many passing centuries have grazed,
And the grave temple's solitary peak.
The adamantine sky is gleaming cold
In its refulgence, and the air is drawn
O'er the piazza like a silver veil
That lightly brushes with caressing touch
The threatening piles, whose grim walls gather round,
Raised by our fathers' mail-encircled arms.
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