Sitting in the January sunshine on the side of this Fiesole hill,
overlooking the opposite quarries (a few long-stalked daisies at my
feet in the gravel, still soft from the night's frost), my thoughts
took the colour and breath of the place. They circled, as these paths
circle round the hill, about those ancient Greek and old Italian
cities, where the cyclopean walls, the carefully-terraced olives,
followed the tracks made first by the shepherd's and the goat's foot,
even as we see them now on the stony hills all round. What
civilisations were those, thus sowed on the rock like the wild mint
and grey myrrh-scented herbs, and grown under the scorch of sun upon
stone, and the eddy of winds down the valleys! They are gone,
disappeared, and their existence would be impossible in our days. But
they have left us their art, the essence they distilled from their
surroundings. And that is as good for our souls as the sunshine and
the wind, as the aromatic scent of the herbs of their mountains.