Now that she is gone, Rome is no longer Rome till she return.
This feeling overmasters me.

I know not If it be love, this strong desire to be Forever in her presence; but I know That I, who was the friend of solitude, And ever was best pleased when most alone, Now weary grow of my own company.
For the first time old age seems lonely to me.
[Opening the Divina Commedia.
I turn for consolation to the leaves Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue, Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava, Betray the heat in which they were engendered.
A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts With immortality.

In courts of princes He was a by-word, and in streets of towns Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet, Himself a prophet.

I too know the cry, Go up, thou bald head! from a generation That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food The soul can feed on.

There's not room enough For age and youth upon this little planet.
Age must give way.