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It was a Saturday, the most beautiful day of the seven: and I went out “in the setting of the sun” from the gate of Monte Morello to the hill called Monte Tabor. Of the spring, however, irresolute I had already seen in the morning, coming from the Port to the city of Recanati, to raise the land two signs among the pallor of the olive trees; a candid, a rosy, of an almond tree and a peach tree. And in the brave and the greppi I saw now the daisies close again for the nocturnal eve the faded petals of pink that had appeared in the day (white-haired brides tinged with redness at the blossoming of the star); while I adored the footsteps of the poet, leaving behind me the “plaza” full of the “happy noise” of the children and going to the “ermo colle” [68] he had felt in the soul the “interminated spaces” and the “superhumans” silences. ” The hill is no longer that, having been partly cut to give rise to a new road, and planted and cleaned and combed to become a public garden, the Pincio; but “ermo” was also that Saturday evening. And shouts of children could be heard, happy for the feast of tomorrow; but here and there, from afar; and they just veered the taciturnity of the sunset. A peasant came back with his spade on his shoulder, his face wrinkled in the glare of the sun. An old woman returned with a small bundle of sticks on her head. Another one stopped against. They stood, blurring in a different and continuous sparkle, speaking in a faint sound of remote voices. They talked for a long time: they were shaking their heads. The “good time” seemed to have never known him.

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