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Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial

"No, boy, we must not"—so began
My Uncle (he's with God long since),
A-petting me, the good old man!
"We must not"—and he seemed to wince,
And lost that laugh whereto had grown
His chuckle at my piece of news,
How cleverly I aimed my stone—
"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,—ah, faith
Was young and strong in Florence too!
We Christians never dreamed of scathe
Because we cursed or kicked the crew.
But now, well, well! The olive-crops
Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks
Would always spare religious shops
Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I'll tell you"—and his eye regained
Its twinkle—"tell you something choice!

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poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
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Amours de Voyage, Canto III

Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda,
Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,
Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,
Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;
Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;
Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.--
Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,
Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,
Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,
Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,
Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,--
Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,
Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!

I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--on the way to Florence.

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poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Isabella; Or, The Pot Of Basil: A Story From Boccaccio

I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

II.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

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poem by John Keats
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Isabella or The Pot of Basil

I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

II.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

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poem by John Keats
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Amours de Voyage, Canto II

Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,
Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?
Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,
Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?
Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,
Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,
E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,
E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not?
Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine,
Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare?
Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger,
Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate?

I. Claude to Eustace.

What do the people say, and what does the government do?--you
Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; and
I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it.

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poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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I. The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Stay Germ Free

Bird Flu and Swine Flu can travel our way.
So may cleanliness be the mode of the day...
In the Florence Nightingale way.

'Florence Nightingale'
nurse in the Crimean War
helped British soldiers
by cleaning the hospitals
halving the dreadful death toll.
Although retired, she gave her all
to improve the conditions
in the Nursing Profession,
leaving behind a valuable lesson.

Bird Flu and Swine Flu can travel our way
So may cleanliness be the mode of the day
in the Florence Nightingale way.

poem by Joyce Hemsley
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What She Gave

She gave you a postcard print
Of Marc Chagall. You pinned it
To the inside of your bedroom door.
It had a Florence postmark
On the back; you imagined her spittle
On the stamp, her tongue licking
Until the stamp stuck. You wished
You could have been at her side
When she toured the Florence sites;
Wished in your secret thoughts
You could have shared her bed;
Felt her twist and turn in the night,
Sensed her body’s closeness as you lay.
She had written neatly on the back;
Her words conveying that day’s tour
And things she’d seen and done with him.
Before you’d pinned the card to the door
You had smelt the surface for her scent
As if she’d secretly hid some message there
Amongst the smells and aromas of her hand.

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poem by Terry Collett
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Souvenir des Flandres

J'ai goûté sur la dune où Dante a dû passer
Les couchants langoureux des pensives Zélandes ;
Les clochers regardaient de la digue et des landes,
Bruges, sur ton canal les bélandres glisser.

Villes, vos monuments, églises et musées,
Renaissent en mon âme. Ô Flandres, je revois
Vos chefs-d'œuvre debout, et d'eux monte une voix
Qui dit : ' Nous renaîtrons, nous les pierres brisées. '
Qui dit : ' Nous reviendrons, nous livres et tableaux
Nous autels, nous joyaux, et nous L'AGNEAU MYSTIQUE,
Nous Châsse de Memlinc, cet éternel cantique,
Et nous ces fins d'été qui saignent dans les flots

Nous renaîtrons : corons, hospices, béguinages,
Beffrois et carillons, négoces opulents.
Qu'importe le Malheur ! Sur les canaux dolents
Comme des cygnes vont les misères des âges.

Leur sillage s'efface aussitôt. Les destins

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poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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Judy and You and Chagall

What did you think
of the Chagall postcard print
I bought you?
Judy asked as you both sat

outside the Fox Inn
I pinned it on my wall
you replied
and stared at it every time

I entered the room
thinking of you
she sipped her drink
her eyes searching you

her hair tied behind
in a ponytail
so I gathered
by your letters

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poem by Terry Collett
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