Hours Long I
Stood And Walked Here, Marvelling Delightedly At All I Saw, But In
The End Ever Fixing My Gaze On Sicily.
Clouds passed across the blue
sky, and their shadows upon the Sicilian panorama made ceaseless
change of hue and outline.
At early morning I saw the crest of Etna
glistening as the first sun-ray smote upon its white ridges; at fall
of day, the summit hidden by heavy clouds, and western beams darting
from behind the mountain, those far, cold heights glimmered with a
hue of palest emerald, seeming but a vision of the sunset heaven,
translucent, ever about to vanish. Night transformed but did not all
conceal. Yonder, a few miles away, shone the harbour and the streets
of Messina, and many a gleaming point along the island coast,
strand-touching or high above, signalled the homes of men. Calm,
warm, and clear, this first night at Reggio; I could not turn away
from the siren-voice of the waves; hearing scarce a footstep but my
own, I paced hither and thither by the sea-wall, alone with
memories.
The rebuilding of Reggio has made it clean and sweet; its air is
blended from that of mountain and sea, ever renewed, delicate and
inspiriting. But, apart from the harbour, one notes few signs of
activity; the one long street, Corso Garibaldi, has little traffic;
most of the shops close shortly after nightfall, and then there is
no sound of wheels; all would be perfectly still but for the
occasional cry of lads who sell newspapers.
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