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"And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide From day-break when the mountain pales his fire, Yet more and more, and from the mountain top, Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, Solemn and slow." "Vedi Napoli! e poi muori!" Memory! beloved memory! to us thou art as hope to other men. The present solitary, unexciting where are its charms?
And as we went up beyond San Domenico, through those lands which in spring and summer are so fruitful with their vines and olives, two peasant swains passed, chanting one of the old stornelli, those quaint love-songs of the Tuscan contadini the same which have been sung for centuries in and about old Firenze: Acqua di rio. Teco sarò di luglio e di gennaio Dove tu muori te, morirò anch'io.
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