This forenoon the house nearly opposite fell in. We saw one man brought out dead. Seven others were said to be buried in the ruins. The King came later on and himself helped one of the wounded out and took him to the hospital.
Jan. 9th. Wet and rain. The Campagna covered with snow. In the forenoon I wrote four more of my ‘Ebb and Flow’ Series of Sea Poems—‘Phosphorescence before Storm’—‘Tempest Music’—‘Dead Calm: Noon’ and ‘Dead Calm: Midnight.’ The others were written some on the French coast some on the English in 1887. ‘Tempest-Music’ and the two ‘Dead Calm’ are as good if not better than any in the series. In all the latter I care most for the ‘Swimmer at Sunrise’ and ‘The Dead-Calm-Noon’: also for ‘Tempest Music.’
... After dinner read to Lill for a bit including the prose version (outline) of my “Lilith.”
To-day the anniversary of the Death of Victor Emmanuel, 13 years ago. The Italians idolise his memory, and call him “The Father of the Country.” He is rapidly becoming a Presiding Deity. 10th rewrote and greatly improved “Phosphorescence.” Its two opening lines, originally,
“As hill winds and sun and rains inweave a veil
Of lichen round vast boulders on the mountain side.”
were out of keeping in imagery with the rest: and in every way
“As some aerial spirit weaves a rainbow veil
Of Mist, his high immortal loveliness to hide.”
are better. Should have preferred “wild” to “high” in this line, but the 4th terminal is “wild.” Perhaps not, after all.
Jan. 16th. Although it was so cold and wintry with signs of snow in suspension caught the train for Tivoli. The scenery extremely beautiful, and doubly fascinating and strange from the whirling snow falling every here and there, in strangely intermittent and separate fashion. The sheep and disconsolate shepherds on one high healthy part made a fantastic foreground. At Tivoli, which was like a hill town in Scotland in midwinter, with a storm raging, we walked past the first cascades, then up a narrow hill-path partly snowed up, partly frozen, to the open country beyond. Then back and into a trattoria where we had lunch of wine, omelette, bread, fruit, and coffee.
Jan. 17th. Midwinter with a vengeance. Rome might be St. Petersburg. Snow heavy and a hard frost. Even the Fountain of the Tritone hung all over with long spears and pendicles of ice.—Later, I went out, to walk to and fro on the Pincio Terrace in the whirling snow, which I enjoyed beyond words. There was a lull, and then I saw the storm clouds sweep up from the Maremma, across the Campagna and blot out Rome bit by bit. Walking to and fro I composed the lyric, beginning: