Through Dante's Land: Impressions in Tuscany

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John Long, 1912 - 315 páginas

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Página 33 - In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, — A vision, a delight, and a desire, — The builder's perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting still the glory of the spire.
Página 197 - Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling : — She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy ! Queen Mary's saying serves for me — (When fortune's malice Lost her — Calais) — Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it,
Página 84 - And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees...
Página 25 - Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings. How did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here.
Página 271 - Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes...
Página 282 - His legions, angel forms, who lay entranced, Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades, High overarched, embower...
Página 25 - Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.
Página 167 - Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?
Página 160 - ... and it was provoking to be crossed in our ambitions by that little holy abbot with the red face, and to be driven out of Eden, even to Florence. It is said, observe, that Milton took his description of Paradise from Vallombrosa — so driven out of Eden we were, literally. To Florence, though! and what Florence is, the tongue of man or poet may easily fail to describe. The most beautiful of cities, with the golden Arno shot through the breast of her like an arrow, and 'non dolet
Página 211 - Through midst of Tuscany there wanders A streamlet that is born in Falterona, And not a hundred miles of course suffice it ; From thereupon do I this body bring. To tell you who I am were speech in vain, *> Because my name as yet makes no great noise.

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