Beneath my feet the smokeless city fair:
Duomo and Giotto’s noble tower arise
Like sentinels o’er Florence! In the air
Something, not mist, but silvery vapour, lies.
Up a steep hill climbs famous Fiésole
From out the dark woods of Domenico,
Close to Arno’s bank is Santa Crocé,
Where lies at rest great Michael Angelo.
And through the landscape, winding softly there,
Arno betwixt his buttressed banks doth run
Solemn and silent, steely bright and fair,
Towards Carrara’s rocks, and setting sun.