In full sunlight their vermilion is most beautiful.

Well might Ceres gather _such_ poppies to mingle with her wheat.
We climbed the hill to Assisi, and my ears thrilled as with many old remembered melodies, when an old peasant, in sonorous phrase, bade me look out and see the plain of Umbria.

I looked back and saw the carriage toiling up the steep path, drawn by a pair of those light-colored oxen Shelley so much admired.

I stood near the spot where Goethe met with a little adventure, which he has described with even more than his usual delicate humor.

Who can ever be alone for a moment in Italy?
Every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems instinct with spirit from the Past, every step recalls some line, some legend of long-neglected lore.
Assisi was exceedingly charming to me.