191 2ll To Anderson in Florence 



in the valley of the Po. But I shall not here in Italy 

 attempt to recount our impressions, common to 

 all enthusiastic travelers, of the cities of Italy: 

 the charms of Florence and Verona, and the many 

 smaller towns; the majesty of Rome; the scenic 

 joys of Naples; the rare interest of Pompeii, and of 

 Vesuvius, which we climbed at midnight while a 

 mild eruption was going on; the delights of Capri, 

 Sorrento, and Castellamare. Nor need I speak of 

 Venice (which I have visited several times since) 

 where the Rialto market furnished one of my finest 

 collections of fishes. For every writer with eyes 

 and soul has caught the glow of some part of Italy, 

 and at the best I could only trail behind in the rear 

 of a long procession. 



But in view of my generous self-restraint I may 

 perhaps be pardoned for reprinting a bit of verse 

 on Florence, written just thirty years after my stay 

 near the old, old bridge of Taddeo Gaddi, lovingly 

 called in "soft bastard Latin" // Ponte Vecchio. 



To Melville Best Anderson ^ 



Good friend, your message comes to me 



Far-tost across a winter's sea, 



And once again, as in a dream, 



In your Etrucsan town I seem. 



Once more in sunset's reddening haze 



San Miniato's spire's ablaze. 



The last long rays slow fade away 



On thy gray hills, Fiesole! 



Once more across these thirty years. 



Rich with their shimmering hopes and fears, 



1 Then (1912) resident in Florence. Written in answer to his poem, La Cap- 

 ^oncma, an appreciation of thecity. 



C 251 2 



