Not Even Poppies Gathered Under A Waning Moon.
The Rails Have A Rhythm Of Slight Falls And Rises ...
They make a loud
roar like a perpetual torrent; they cover up the mind with a veil.
Once only, when a number of men were shouting 'POGGI-BON-SI,' like a
war-cry to the clank of bronze, did I open my eyes sleepily to see a
hill, a castle wall, many cypresses, and a strange tower bulging out
at the top (such towers I learned were the feature of Tuscany). Then
in a moment, as it seemed, I awoke in the station of Siena, where the
railway ends and goes no farther.
It was still only morning; but the glare was beyond bearing as I
passed through the enormous gate of the town, a gate pierced in high
and stupendous walls that are here guarded by lions. In the narrow
main street there was full shade, and it was made cooler by the
contrast of the blaze on the higher storeys of the northern side. The
wonders of Siena kept sleep a moment from my mind. I saw their great
square where a tower of vast height marks the guildhall. I heard Mass
in a chapel of their cathedral: a chapel all frescoed, and built, as
it were, out of doors, and right below the altar-end or choir. I noted
how the city stood like a queen of hills dominating all Tuscany: above
the Elsa northward, southward above the province round Mount Amiato.
And this great mountain I saw also hazily far off on the horizon.
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