ON the Lung’ Arno, in each stately street,
The silence is a hunger, and craves food
Like Ugolino cowering o’er his brood.
Sad Pisa! in thy garments obsolete
Still grand, the sceptre fallen at thy feet,
An impuissant queen of solitude,
Thine inconsolable gaze speaks widowhood,
Fixed on the river, voiceless and deplete.
A trance more lonely — lo! not many rods
From the shrunk Arno, a more slumberous air,
A dream of heaven in marbles rich and rare!
Oppressed with sleep the Campanile nods ;
But in the Campo Santo’s hush of breath,
Orcagna’s pathos paints, not Sleep, but Death!
William Gibson.