We talked of Fiesole, where he had lived.

Once I rode from Fiesole down the hill to Florence in the moonlight.

I remember endless walls on which hung roses, fresh and blooming.

I remember a gaunt nunnery and two-gray-robed sisters clanging shut the gates.
I remember the searchlight from the military encampment, playing constantly over the Arno and the roofs--the eye of Mars that, here in Europe, never closes.

And always the flowers nodding above me, stooping now and then to brush my face.