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”  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.