In true accord the clashing fragments bind.
Soft fall the Angelus bells on listening ear,
The Miserere, in distress divine,
Wails from the heart of city Leonine.
Feels he the light that makes his darkness clear,
Grasps he the chord of pure and infinite blue
His picture lacks to make its color true.
VII.
So, poet-led, I trod Italian ways,
Seeing the glimmer of pale olive-trees,