Bologna

    I go from colonnade to colonnade
        In streets that Dante trod, and past the towers
        Aslant toward heaven, and listen to the hours
    Chimed by the bells of choirs where Dante prayed.
    They cease; then lo! the foot of time seems stayed
        Five hundred years and more, I find me bowers
        Where sweet and noble ladies weave them flowers
    For one who reads Boccaccio in the shade.
    The cowlèd students halt by two and threes
        To hear the voice come thrilling through the trees,
        Then tear themselves away to themes more trite.
    Anon I mark the diligent hands that turn
        Unlovely parchment scrolls whereby to learn
        The beauty of inexorable right.