Makes even a sad heart contented.
Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown,
Hast thou on my head called witchcraft down
For my love-sick and dreamy talking?
A cloud of dust whirls up to the sky,
A herd of oxen now passing by
Blocks up the way I am walking.
XII.
(Monte testaccio.)
I do not know what the end will be;