They slowly gather in the west.
And when the distant mountain ranges
In moonlight or blue mist are clad,
Oft memory all the landscape changes,
And pensive thoughts are blent with glad.
For then, as in a dream Elysian,
Val d’Arno’s fair and loved domain
Seems to my rapt yet waking vision,
To yield familiar charms again.
Save that for dome and turret hoary,