They and their children, and their children’s children,
Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more. 
Through openings in the trees I see below me
The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms
And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade
Of the tall poplars on the river’s brink. 
O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse! 
I who have never loved thee as I ought,
But wasted all my years immured in cities,
And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets,
Now come to thee for refuge.  Here is peace. 
Yonder I see the little hermitages
Dotting the mountain side with points of light,
And here St. Julian’s convent, like a nest
Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. 
Beyond the broad, illimitable plain
Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo’s quoit,
That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside,
Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth
With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers. 
And now, instead of these fair deities
Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit
The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads;
And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund,
Replace the old Silenus with his ass.

Here underneath these venerable oaks,
Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age,
A brother of the monastery sits,
Lost in his meditations.  What may be
The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him? 
Good-evening, holy father.

MONK. 
                      God be with you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Pardon a stranger if he interrupt
Your meditations.

MONK. 
                It was but a dream,—­
The old, old dream, that never will come true;
The dream that all my life I have been dreaming,
And yet is still a dream.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                    All men have dreams: 
I have had mine; but none of them came true;
They were but vanity.  Sometimes I think
The happiness of man lies in pursuing,
Not in possessing; for the things possessed
Lose half their value.  Tell me of your dream.

MONK. 
The yearning of my heart, my sole desire,
That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right,
While all the others bend and bow to it;
The passion that torments me, and that breathes
New meaning into the dead forms of prayer,
Is that with mortal eyes I may behold
The Eternal City.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                Rome?

MONK. 
                    There is but one;
The rest are merely names.  I think of it
As the Celestial City, paved with gold,
And sentinelled with angels.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                        Would it were. 
I have just fled from it.  It is beleaguered
By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of Alva.

MONK. 
But still for me ’t is the Celestial City,
And I would see it once before I die.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Each one must bear his cross.