The ways were silent where the sunshine poured
Its simmering, golden stream;
For half the town slept in its shaded halls,
Half worked as in a dream;
The very fountains dropt from sleepiness,
Pillowed in their own foam,
I only, and the poppies, it would seem,
Were wide awake in Rome.
There were the gray old ruins, in whose nooks
Nodded each wild flower-bell,