Evening: Ponte Al Mare, Pisa
The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;The bats are flitting fast in the gray air;The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,And evening's breath, wandering here and thereOver the quivering surface of the stream,Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.
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 breezeThe dust and straws are driven up and down,And whirled about the pavement of the town.
Within the surface of the fleeting riverThe wrinkled image of the city lay,Immovably unquiet, and foreverIt 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 shutBy darkest barriers of cinereous cloud,Like mountain over mountain huddled--butGrowing and moving upwards in a crowd,And over it a space of watery blue,Which the keen evening star is shining through..
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