Rome.

Scarlet of toga, tawny face i' the sun,
Swift canter and loose rein, and heavy tread
Of bell-yoked oxen, and light paces sped
By the young slave-girl when her work is done—
All clangour that from morn to eve may run
Ere night the heat of living hath outsped
And lain her as a city of the dead—
A thousand thousand hearts that beat as one—

Aloft, apart, bathed in the sunny air,
Light upon light of marble, snow on snow,
Palace and tower rise candid, pure and spare
In the hot morning; while the doves swoop low
In such simplicity, the very skies
Are wooed to silence, amorous of their eyes.