In the Old Theatre, Fiesole
I traced the Circus whose gray stones inclineWhere Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,Till came a child who showed an ancient coinThat bore the image of a Constantine.
She lightly passed; nor did she once opineHow, better than all books, she had raised for meIn swift perspective Europe’s historyThrough the vast years of Cæsar’s sceptred line.
For in my distant plot of English loam’Twas but to delve, and straightway there to findCoins of like impress. As with one half blindWhom common simples cure, her act flashed homeIn that mute moment to my opened mindThe power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.
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