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.