Bologna

I go from colonnade to colonnade

In streets that Dante trod, and past the towers

Aslant toward heaven, and listen to the hours

Chimed by the bells of choirs where Dante prayed.

They cease; then lo! the foot of time seems stayed

Five hundred years and more, I find me bowers

Where sweet and noble ladies weave them flowers

For one who reads Boccaccio in the shade.

The cowlèd students halt by two and threes

To hear the voice come thrilling through the trees,

Then tear themselves away to themes more trite.

Anon I mark the diligent hands that turn

Unlovely parchment scrolls whereby to learn

The beauty of inexorable right.