Your hills. Your Hills!

Your seven wondrous hills —

Having the look of twenty-five centuries;

Twenty-five centuries for the eyes to see.

Many more figures in temples of shade

Than words in a lifetime a human could say.

Colonnades, balustrades, domes in the sun,

Holy ground, fountains, ancient stadiums.

An emperor’s snarl impressed in the stone

Has transfixed this soul in the center of Rome!

And walking on marble walked on by Seneca,

And by Virgil and Juvenal and Horace,

Has bestirred my thoughts to ancient periods —

Like shouts from the theatres of the Roman Chorus!

Recline here a while — beneath the splash of a naiad,

Or betwixt the pillars of a shrine thrice raided.

The Hills salute, take leave, give life;

Surround the City of our Eternal Rite.

And leaving leaves tears only pomposity could conjure,

From a place sacred and profane — Rome, your grandeur,

Your splendor, your temporal glory, your martial quarrels,

Your divine eminence, your sanctity, your imperial laurels.

And your hills. Your Hills!

Your seven wondrous hills.

Photos by Michael Pitassi