Rome

April with purple flowers crowned beheld thee
Rise up stern from the furrow of Romulus,
On the hill beheld thee, thy gaze turned
Towards the plain that as yet knew no tillage.

After such long succession of centuries,
April still irradiates thee, thou greatest,
Most sublime, the sun and Italy
Salute thee, Flora of our race, O Rome!

If behind the priest the Vestal in silence
Mounts the Capitol no longer, no longer
On the Sacred Way the procession,
Four white horses a-breast, winds triumphal.

Yet this deep solitude here of thy Forum
Surpasses the shout, surpasses the glory,
For all that in the world is civic,
Great, august, that still to-day is Roman.