ITALIAN GARDENS OF THE RENAISSANCE 
evening, and looked down on the bare crags and huge 
masses of debris that lay upheaved about us on every 
side in wild confusion. For this was the one corner 
of the desolate rock where the beech-trees spread their 
leaves of tender green against the sky, and violets 
and cyclamen peeped out among the moss-grown 
trunks, paying silent tribute to the memory of him 
who prayed best, because he loved best all things 
both great and small, who thanked his Lord for the 
bright blossoms, and the green grass, and called the 
swallows his brothers and sisters. 
And so, with the sun touching the highest Apen- 
nine tops with gold, and the sweet mountain air 
blowing in our faces across the slopes of Michael 
Angelo’s native hills, we looked our last on La Vernia, 
and turned our faces southwards, wondering once 
more over the story of Francis, this great and tender 
heart which overflowed with such untold love to God 
and man. 
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