Still, as we saunter down the crowded street,
On our own thoughts intent, and plans and pleasures,
For miles and miles beneath our idle feet,
Rome buries from the day yet unknown treasures.
The whole world's alphabet, in every line
Some stirring page of history she recalls,--
Her Alpha is the Prison Mamertine,
Her Omega, St. Paul's, without the walls.
Above, beneath, around, she weaves her spells,
And ruder hands unweave them all in vain:
Who once within her fascination dwells,
Leaves her with but one thought--to come again.
So cast thy obol into Trevi's fountain--
Drink of its waters, and, returning home,
Pray that by land or sea, by lake or mountain,
"All roads alike may lead at last to Rome."
--Herman Merivale