Classic Poem

The Evening gilds the church-dome far away
High on the hills. The sun is almost set,
And Alban mountain-tops are roseate yet
With vernal snow.—Stretched far in long array,
Behold the toilers at the end of day,
Where slowly coming, tired and labor-bowed,
One sees them dimly in a rising cloud
Of golden dust along the Appian Way.

In field apart, responsive, mate to mate,
Lone contadini sing below the pine;
The panniered donkeys, orange-laden, wait
Beside the Trattoria 'neath the vine,
And there the artist-travelers, now elate,
Chat o'er their Parmesan and Asti wine.