And yet what joy it were for me To turn my feet unto the south, And journeying towards the Tiber mouth To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines That break the gold of Arno's stream, To see the purple mist and gleam Of morning on the Apennines By many a vineyard-hidden home, Orchard and olive-garden grey, Till from the drear Campagna's way The seven hills bear up the dome!
