It had rained heavily, that last day at Verona, and cleared up in the afternoon. I bought a bunch of lavender for remembrance; and had some coffee, before starting, in Piazza dei Signori. The stones were still wet, but the sky clear. Moist clouds were sailing above the towers; the town pigeons pecking on the pavement and flying into the palace crannies; swallows screaming; the sun, invisible behind roofs, was setting. 'Tis at this hour, to the sound of bells, that the genius of old cities seems to gather himself up and overcome ones heart.
To certain among us, undeniably, places, localities (I can find no reverent and tender enough expression for them in our practical, personal language) become objects of intense and most intimate feeling.
