DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.19775#0128
THE GARDENS OF ITALY.
To-day it is deserted. Year in, year out, the
sunsets gild the tall cypresses, silent sentinels upon
the ramparts ; the wind sweeps the forsaken alleys,
the roses scatter their scented showers, the fountains
splash in their moss-grown basins : from out of the
busy world we enter one of long ago, and we go
back and leave it to its solemn peace—a garden
which Time itself seems to have forgotten.
( 118 )
To-day it is deserted. Year in, year out, the
sunsets gild the tall cypresses, silent sentinels upon
the ramparts ; the wind sweeps the forsaken alleys,
the roses scatter their scented showers, the fountains
splash in their moss-grown basins : from out of the
busy world we enter one of long ago, and we go
back and leave it to its solemn peace—a garden
which Time itself seems to have forgotten.
( 118 )