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(historik)
Rocca, the castle cliff in the centre of the old town, it cleared.
They leaned over the rampart, looking at the lake, which lay
black beneath the olive groves and the vineyards. The skies
hung low about the hills round the lake, but across the dark
water there came a silver line, which broadened, the mist rolled
back into the crevices, and the mountain came into better view.
The sun pierced the clouds, which sank down to rest round the
small promontories with grey stone castles. Towards the north
a distant peak became visible — Cesca said it was Monte
Amiata.
The last rain-clouds rolled across the blue spring sky,
melting before the sun; the bad weather fled westward, darkening
the Etrurian heights, which sloped desolately towards the far
yellow-white strip of the Mediterranean. The sight reminded
him of the mountain scenery in his own country, in spite of
the olive grove and the vineyards.
He and she had stooped behind the hedge, and he had held
out his coat so that she could light her cigarette. The wind
was keen up there, and she shivered a little in her wet clothes.
Her cheeks were red and the sun glittered in her damp,
golden hair as she stroked it away from her eyes with one
hand.
He would go there tomorrow to meet the spring, the cold,
naked spring, full of expectation, with all the buds wet and
shivering in the wind—blossoming all the same.
She and the spring were one to him, she who stood shivering
and smiled in the changing weather and wanted to gather all
the flowers into her lap. Little Jenny, you were not to gather
the flowers, and your dreams never came true—and now I am
dreaming them for you.
And when I have lived long enough to be so full of longing
as you were, perhaps I will do as you, and say to fate: Give
me a few of the flowers; I will be satisfied with much less than
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