We took the train at Florence,[1] we,—
The day was warm and pleasant.
The town of Pisa would we see.
No time was like the present.
Anon we climb’d the Leaning Tower,[2]
Dropt something down, and sat an hour;
And then the grand Baptistry[2] door
They swung for us; and, o’er and o’er,
We made its domed rotunda roar,
To echo back our joking.
We set our pockets jingling, we,
To make our guide a crony,
Saw the cathedral, paid a fee,
And ate some macaroni,
Then feasted on an outside view
Of all three buildings,[2] yet so new;
Then bought, in alabaster[3] wrought,
Some models of them; then we sought
The Campo Santo,[4] where we thought
About the dead, while smoking.
We took the train at sunset, we,
And while we left the station,
Extoll’d the land, “How much to see!
How grand this Roman nation!
Our own, how mean!—no works of art!”
We strove to sigh, but check’d a start
And cried, “How home-like!” o’er and o’er.—
What thrill’d us thus?—alas, it bore
No hint from art; we heard once more
A frog, near by us, croaking.