XXXVI) The distant hills, that through the burning day
The distant hills, that through the burning day
Beyond the vapours of the Lombard plain,
Unreal as the setting of a play,
Ran ever east as eastward ran the train,
The hills are darkening now, but points of light,
Clustering or singly, village, farm or town,
Take up the race instead and through the night
Fly with us to the Adriatic down,
Where in the silence of her waters lone,
Venice is waiting, dreaded and unknown.
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