Evening: Ponte Al Mare, Pisa

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,

Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;

The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;

And in the inconstant motion of the breeze

The dust and straws are driven up and down,

And whirled about the pavement of the town.

Within the surface of the fleeting river

The wrinkled image of the city lay,

Immovably unquiet, and forever

It trembles, but it never fades away;

Go to the...

You, being changed, will find it then as now.

The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut

By darkest barriers of cinereous cloud,

Like mountain over mountain huddled — but

Growing and moving upwards in a crowd,

And over it a space of watery blue,

Which the keen evening star is shining through..